Feedback and comments are very welcome. But please note that due to work commitments, replies may be delayed or sometimes not possible. Apologies in advance if this is the case.
Send to

Storm Damage

by Sue

Angry waves flung themselves at the shoreline, crashing against the grey weather-sculpted rocks, pitching sea spray high into the shrieking wind. Overhead thunder growled, a malevolent prelude to the whip crack of lightning tearing the night apart with impersonal savagery. The brief, eerie light revealed black churning clouds that turned the sky into a vast seething cauldron of primeval fury. Lashing rain added to the elemental chaos battering the New England coast with indifferent cruelty.

Safe in his bed, Eddie Nils flung down the book he was attempting to read and removed his glasses, glaring in some disgust at the white ceiling. He winced at a particularly loud clap of thunder, unconsciously stiffening in anticipation of the echoing stroke of lightning. Even after four years of this kind of weather he still wasn't used to the violence and the sheer volume of noise generated by the winter storms. The stone-built inn seemed to shudder around him as the storm reached its zenith and he felt deeply thankful for the sturdy wooden shutters protecting the windows and keeping the inclement weather at bay.

Rolling onto his side he tossed the black framed spectacles onto the nightstand and switched off the reading lamp before settling back again. He closed his eyes and composed himself for sleep, pulling the bedclothes up around his chin. He was a small man of wiry build, in his early sixties, but it was only in the last few years that his hairline had begun to recede, his hair's spectacular shade of red only lightly peppered with grey. A pair of slightly protruding blue eyes were the only outstanding features of a face that was unremarkable except for the innate kindness that gave it its attractiveness. For the first thirty years of his life Eddie had lived in the suburbs of Los Angeles before moving to spend the next thirty in New York clerking in a huge department store. His job had been one of the very few things in his life he hadn't enjoyed, and he had leapt at the chance to move to New England when he heard that his one remaining uncle had died and left him the Cliffside Inn.

The Cliffside Inn. His thoughts lingered lovingly on the name, deeply appreciative of the escape it had provided. He opened his eyes and stared into the darkness, recalling to mind the last few years. The Inn was a small place and an old one, needing a lot of care and attention to keep it in prime condition, but he didn't mind the hard work. From the first he had loved the old place - and so had Sandi, his wife.

A twinge of pain rippled the lined serenity of the old man's face. Sandi had been dead two years now, yet his grief was still there, deep and abiding. Her image was strong and vivid behind his closed eyelids, framed against a shimmering sunset, her face lit with inner laughter, still beautiful in old age. The memory took his breath away, and he ached for her presence beside him, all desire for sleep fleeing.

In quick decision Eddie tossed back the patchwork quilt and climbed out of bed, unable to bear the loneliness. He pushed his feet into red brocade slippers and pulled on a red bathrobe, fastening the belt as he padded from the room and headed for the kitchens at the rear of the three storey building. Once there he switched on the brilliant fluorescent lights, his eyes squinting against the sudden illumination as he crossed to the wall-length kitchen unit. The large tiled room was cold. Eddie shivered, reaching to thumb on the fan heater fixed to the wall, hearing it whirr into action as he set about preparing a tray of coffee and sandwiches.

A fist hammered urgently on the solid front door of the inn.

Startled, Eddie whirled, the jug he held flying from his hand to smash against a cupboard door. He cursed fluently and hurried from the kitchen, revealing an impressive understanding of Anglo-Saxon idiom as the summons continued unabated.

A scowl darkened his face as he drew level with the front entrance and pulled back the heavy-duty bolts before turning the ornate key in the lock. He jerked open the door, ready - and more than willing - to launch a testy tirade against all fools who ventured out in such a storm. The words died in his throat as he stepped back abruptly. Two bedraggled and muddy strangers half-fell, half-stumbled past him. Eddie closed the door, struggling a little against the wind. Automatically he shot home the bolts and turned the key in its lock, then swung around to confront his unexpected guests, taking in their lack of luggage and torn clothes.

"Thanks."

Eddie blinked, the one word of gratitude breaking his bemusement. "What the hell happened to you?" The question burst from him even as he edged towards the reception desk and the revolver he kept there.

"Landslip. Our car went into a ditch five miles south of here. We collected a few bruises, nothing serious."

The terse explanation served to put a stop to Eddie's plans for retrieving his revolver. For an uncertain moment he watched the man who'd spoken half-carry his exhausted friend towards a couch, then shot forward to intercept them.

"If your friend's hurt, he'll be better off in bed. You get him upstairs while I collect a key, then I'll see about fixing up some hot soup." He strode away before any objections could be made.

"That's the best offer I've had all year." The hoarsely-spoken words snapped Jack McGee's attention back to his companion. "I thought you'd cut out on me."

"So did I - for a second," David Banner agreed wryly. A bout of coughing forestalled his next comment, wracking his slender body as he reeled against the reporter, barely conscious of the supporting arm immediately flung around him. He clung to McGee, exhausted by the involuntary exertion, clenching his teeth against the iciness in his bones.

"God, I'm cold."

The whispered complaint increased McGee's worry with unintentional efficiency, combined as it was with the evidence of David's flushed, perspiring skin. Some of the concern he was feeling must have shown, because David smiled wearily at him.

"Don't worry, it's just a chill."

Startled, McGee met the affectionate gaze - then laughed, giving the slight figure a brief hug. Many months ago he would have been horrified by such easy understanding; now he accepted it - though it still had the power to disconcert him on occasion. He felt David lean back against his arm, the dark head dropping to rest on his shoulder as they stood there. He glanced down at the half-hidden features, a curiously proud smile crooking his mouth at this open display of trust.

The slither of slippers on the carpet caught his ear, and he glanced around to meet Eddie's interested gaze. The old face wore an arrested expression that was rapidly overtaken by concern when David began to cough again.

"Sounds bad. Maybe I should call Doc Peterson an' - Damn!" He swore in consternation.

"What is it?" McGee spared a glance from David to look enquiringly at the little man. "What's wrong?"

"You did say the landslip happened south of here?"

"Yeah. So?"

"So we're cut off from town. The doctor won't be able to get through 'til they clear the road."

"Damn!" "I don't need a doctor!" David pulled free of McGee to glare at the reporter and the innkeeper with equal annoyance. "What I do need is a hot bath and sleep - in that order." He started to prove his point by walking unsteadily towards the stairs. McGee caught up with him before he could climb the first step.

"Of all the filthy tempered, stubborn - " He clenched his teeth and took David's elbow in a firm grip. "Which way?" he asked, over his shoulder.

"Up the stairs to the left. Twin room on the first floor. That okay?"

"Fine." McGee answered for both men.

"Good." Eddie crossed the foyer and handed the room's key to the reporter. "Here, go settle in. I'll rustle up some food and find you both something to wear tonight."

"Sounds good. Thanks." "Don't thank me 'til you've seen the bill, boy," the small man warned, a warm smile belying the mercenary words. "You can register later."

Somewhat stunned, McGee watched him disappear into the inner recesses of the inn, then turned to meet a pair of twinkling eyes.

"Did he really call me 'boy'?"

"Yes!" A rather convulsed answer. The laughter was a mistake, touching off another coughing fit. David grabbed the bannister and hung on grimly, red fire licking at his lungs.

McGee waited in silent sympathy until the attack died down, then gently steered the almost comatose man up the stairs. "C'mon, let's find our room and get you out of those wet clothes."

"Yes, sir, Mister McGee, sir!" A brisk reply from David as he sketched a rather lopsided salute.

Unsuccessfully hiding a grin, McGee gave the slender arm a gentle shake. "Your manners are improving, Doctor Banner."

"But not through example, Mister McGee." Ill or not, David still had the breath to echo the soft chuckle that answered his swift retort.

Content to be guided, David slid a glance at the relaxed profile, experiencing a very familiar jolt of incredulity at the change that had taken place in his relationship with the reporter. A year ago they had been on opposing sides; hunter and hunted. Now they were ... friends?

The mental question-mark put a frown on David's face, his exhausted state making no concessions to the barriers that protected him against awareness. With a sluggish kind of persistence he tried to follow the instinctive declassification to its source, even though something inside whimpered at his intrusion on shaky ground. Blankly he gazed ahead, responding automatically to the almost imperceptible promptings guiding him.

For some time David had been aware of a subtle dislocation taking place in their friendship; odd pauses in midnight conversations when neither man could sleep. His mind went back to the early days of their fantastic teaming; the wariness of then was in no way comparable to the wariness of now. For the first time he acknowledged the tension he felt drawing tauter between them, his immense weariness dulling the alarm bells beginning to shrill in his brain as he probed after the truth.

Images flashed before his inner gaze: McGee holding him after one of his now rare transformations; the smile that had always invited him to share the reporter's wry appreciation of the absurd; the uncanny instinct McGee seemed to possess that told him when David most needed him.

McGee had been a less-than-perfect companion to have on his quest for a cure - some story or other was always getting in the way - but there was no-one he would rather have had in his stead during the last frustrating months. It wasn't a question of an 'if you can't beat 'em, join 'em' philosophy. It was more a recognition of the other man's looming importance in his life. Jack McGee was - Jack McGee. He couldn't be defined or pushed into any conventional pigeonhole, and David was fascinated by the spirit that refused to be pinned down - even by its owner.

He had seen McGee's restlessness when confronted with the inevitable periods when nothing newsworthy seemed to happen; had endured the helplessness he felt when the older man had withdrawn into his own private world of doubt. McGee in the claws of depression was no easy person to live with but David had persevered, aching to help yet denied the right.

More than anything else Jack McGee's unsuspected vulnerability had put David at ease with the man, softening the hard image of relentless nemesis until all that remained was the blurred image of a man on the outside. The reporter was a man at war with himself, and David's instinctive understanding of that inner conflict had hurt him with laser like accuracy - yet that empathy had also served as the foundation on which he based his acceptance of their new relationship. McGee understood the full horror of his situation only because he, too, had been tainted by circumstances. Maybe if they stayed together long enough, they would find the right healing for both of them - and if he never discovered the cure for his physical condition, would it really matter?

Almost within his grasp, the imminent and frightening truth was jarred from David's mind by their arrival outside the room they'd been given. Disorientated, he blinked the outside world into focus, taking a deep lungful of air as McGee unlocked the door and threw it open. The sudden inhalation of air scraped raw throat muscles and he began to cough again. He leaned against the doorpost and waited resignedly for the bout to end, watching McGee search for a light switch then flick it on, flooding the room with yellow light. Cautiously he filled his depleted lungs and shoved away from his support, crossing over the threshold with an appreciative glance around the comfortable room, liking its warm decor of oak and brocade.

The clink of the key being thrown down on the polished surface of the dresser swung David around in time to see McGee vanish into the adjoining bathroom. The reporter's mission became obvious when he heard the distinctive sound of faucets being turned, the splashing water hitting the bottom of the tub. An uncontrollable shiver reminded David of his own wet condition, and he dragged himself free of the clinging folds of his jacket, draping it over the radiator attached to the wall under the shuttered window.

There was an almighty crack of thunder, then the unmistakeable sound of lightning, the shutters rattling with the vibrations. David flinched, flung back to the moment when their car had spun out of control. Only McGee's desperate skill had saved them from being crushed under a falling telegraph pole.

The sound of crashing waves clashed with the more subdued noise of water running into the bath, resulting in a senseless clamour that began to ache inside David's brain. He rested his forehead against the chilled glass, a dull pain throbbing in every bone.

It had been a helluva night, he reflected wearily. The only reason they'd been travelling in such violent weather had been because McGee had been ordered to cover a reported UFO landing.

Helluva reason to die!

The absurdity of it caught him with unexpected force and he spluttered into laughter, instantly controlling it as he heard its edge.

"What's the joke?"

The drawled question tugged David from his resting place. He turned slowly, smoothing his expression into a tired smile.

"Nothing worth passing on." He glanced over McGee's shoulder at the steam-filled bathroom. "Looks inviting."

"So accept - before I do."

"Don't you ever get tired of giving orders?"

"Only when they're ignored," shot back McGee. "Now, get in there before I forget to be generous."

"That'll be the day." David's face softened as he watched his one-time opponent struggle out of his sodden jacket. "By the way, thanks for saving my life out there."

"My motives were purely selfish," McGee assured him, hiding his discomfort in a lopsided shrug. "It was my windscreen you'd've totalled if you'd connected."

"Then it's a good job you held me back." He smiled a little. "I'd hate to have gone through it and spoiled your view."

The winter-grey eyes warmed to laughter. "I'm glad you didn't - it isn't often I get to see a telegraph pole heading my way."

David chuckled, the shock of almost having been killed retreating before McGee's light response to it.

McGee watched with covert satisfaction as the sensitive face relaxed, and he half-bowed towards the bathroom. "Your bath awaits."

"And it's getting cold." David moved to pass the older man, pausing long enough to rest his hand fleetingly on one narrow shoulder. "Thanks, Jack."

McGee watched him enter the bathroom, his gaze enigmatic as he murmured; "You're welcome, David."

For some seconds he stared about the room in quick helplessness, feeling curiously useless now David had disappeared from the bedroom. He listened absently to the familiar sounds emanating from the bathroom, a faint grin twitching his mouth as he heard a surprised yelp when the chilled man made contact with the warm water. Finally he moved, sighing a little as he spread his jacket out on the radiator beside David's, only then becoming aware of his own discomfort. He stretched, turning, then stilled, his gaze arrested by the bedraggled reflection staring back at him from the window. The lamplight haloing his figure combined with the closed darkness of the shutters to change the clear glass into a sheer back mirror. A death's-head grin tautened his mouth as he saw the way the shadows painted his face into that of an exhausted waif; an image as far from the truth as belief in his own sainthood. He grimaced as sardonic grey eyes stared into his with ambiguous knowingness before shifting to glance over his shoulder. McGee gazed at the reflected image of the hotelier that appeared beside his, twisting around to watch the man put down a tray and two pairs of pyjamas on the firm mattress of the nearest bed.

Eddie straightened up, a faint apology staining his expression as he glanced at the reporter. "I did knock, but you obviously didn't hear me so I came on in."

"Uh, that's okay." McGee collected his scattered wits and strode forward. "I was just about to come down and register."

"Morning'll be soon enough." Eddie dismissed the need, then indicated the somewhat old-fashioned sleep garments. "Sorry, they're all I could find."

"They'll be fine, thanks."

"You'll find extra blankets in the chest if you need them." He glanced towards the open doorway of the bathroom and instinctively lowered his voice as he asked; "How's your friend?"

"Still pretending he's okay." McGee shrugged off the concern. "But I'll take care of him."

"I'm sure you will." Eddie ignored the sharp glance thrown his way and continued blandly; "I've put some aspirin and a pitcher of fruit juice on the tray, as well as a flask of soup. If you need anything else just pick up the phone and dial six - it'll connect you to my quarters."

"I'll remember that," replied McGee, a rather rueful smile lighting up his expression. "I'm sorry we disturbed you tonight, Mr - ah - "

"Nils. Eddie Nils. My guests call me Eddie," was the laconic response. "And you didn't."

"My name's Jack McGee." He jerked his head towards the bathroom. "And that's Dave Brewster. We're reporters with the National Register."

The casually-offered information was greeted with a surprising grin. "Don't tell me - you're here to interview Ma Chanders, right?"

Startled, McGee frowned. "You know her?"

"Not many people in the County doesn't know Ma," chuckled Eddie. "That old lady can spin a tale so fast she'll send you dizzy just listening to her."

"You mean she makes up stories?"

"Better than any Hollywood scriptwriter." Eddie watched imagination breathe life into the tired grey eyes. He chuckled again before beginning a graceful withdrawal from the room. "Dump your clothes outside and I'll see they're laundered. And make sure you take a good long soak yourself, young man. G'night." Gently he closed the door on the speechless newsman.

"It's catching."

The amused comment swung McGee around. He regarded David's new ensemble of a large, fluffy towel, a twinkle growing to laughter in his eyes. "What is?"

"The need to boss people around." David's attention shifted to the linen-covered tray. "Did I hear some mention of fruit juice?"

"You did - but I'll get it for you." He pointed sternly at the bathroom. "Get back in there. You're turning blue - and the colour doesn't suit you!"

David glanced down at himself with a grin. "I don't know," he mused, mischievously, "I think I like it better than green."

"Get in there!" McGee chuckled under his breath as he was obeyed this time, the amusement lingering as he crossed to the tray and lifted the white cover. Two soup bowls and matching silverware lay neatly side by side, flanked by the promised flask and pitcher. He ignored a sudden rumble of hunger at the sight of the basket of bread rolls and turned up a glass, pouring out a full measure of juice. He replaced the pitcher and carried the tumbler into the bathroom, faltering to a stop as he looked down at the sprawled figure in the bath. Eyes shut, David rested in the steaming water, sublimely unaware of the angrily concerned gaze raking up and down his body.

A frown snapped McGee's brows together as he saw, for the first time, the bruises mottling the tanned expanse of David's chest and abdomen, appalled by the ugly discolouration. No wonder David had made such painfully slow progress during their embattled walk to the inn!

A fleeting anger laid its feather light touch on his mind, engendered by the fact that the ex-Culver scientist had made no mention of his injuries. Then the anger died to a wry acceptance. If the past year had taught him anything at all about David Banner, it was that the man rarely acknowledged any physical pain - but when he did, it was way past the time to start worrying. You were already neck deep in trouble. The fact that the other man had not complained of any pain was reassuring; at least it couldn't be serious.

That proposition reasoned out to his own satisfaction, McGee shelved his concern and stepped gingerly over the discarded clothes, tapping one wet shoulder. The closed eyes flew open.

"Your juice."

"Thanks."

Languidly David accepted the offered drink, the glass slipping a little in his hand. He took a firmer hold and downed the contents in one gulp, glancing over the edge of the bath with sleepy, smiling eyes. He floundered half-up and placed the empty glass down on the tiled floor before resettling with a contented sigh, soaking up the warmth with lazy appreciation. He looked at the figure perched precariously on the edge of the washbasin and a tiny frown replaced his smile.

"You'd better get out of those wet clothes."

"You could be right."

"I am. Strip off, Jack."

"I will - in a minute."

Puzzled, David stared up at McGee, belatedly recognising a curious reticence in the deceptively relaxed man - and that was damned silly considering they'd been living together in McGee's tiny apartment for the past year. He didn't pursue the matter, however, some inner wisdom warning him that it would only drive McGee out of the room - something he didn't want, even though the intense gaze was making him nervous. To hide the fact he shut his eyes again, willing himself to relax, feeling oddly out of phase with the world.

For some minutes David drifted on the periphery of awareness, the only sound to disturb the silence being the water lapping softly as he breathed in and out with deliberate slowness. The acoustics of the bathroom deepened and reflected every tiny sound, weaving him into a murmuring tapestry of sighing breaths and rippling water; a mesmerising music. Sensitivity expanded beyond self; he was conscious of every movement of the other man's lean body. Eyes closed, he could see the heavy eyelids blink, the barely perceptible rise and fall of McGee's chest. Even the blood fuelling the still figure was no mystery to him. He wasn't really surprised when a slender hand rested delicately on the flat muscles of his thorax.

"David ... "

The low voice called to him. Reluctant to leave his self-created world of darkness and whispering echoes, David slowly opened his eyes. Grey coloured confusion stared down into his own azure shaded perplexity.

For a timeless moment the two men gazed at each other, wordlessly communicating on a level that precluded conscious understanding. A flush crept over McGee's face and he removed his hand, breaking the tactile contact. He cleared his throat, the sound harsh in the still silence.

"I - I thought you'd gone to sleep."

"No."

The subdued denial drove McGee to his feet. He felt hunted, yet David had made no threatening gesture other than opening his eyes. He backed away, unaware of how revealing his expression was to his friend.

"Jack - "

"The old man'll be waiting for our clothes."

Furiously aware of babbling McGee gave an awkward smile, then quickly gathered up the muddied clothing. He fled into the relative sanctuary of the bedroom, acutely conscious of the thoughtful gaze aimed at his retreating back.

Once away from that too-demanding stare, McGee shook free from the impossible enchantment which had held him immobile in the bathroom. The wet clothes fell unheeded from his hands as he looked again at his reflection trapped in the window-glass. His expression tightened with self-loathing and he sank down to sit on the edge of the bed, covering his face with shaking hands.

No ... Oh, God, no ...

The silent plea flashed through the innermost parts of his soul. Stricken by its desolation he huddled, cold and shaken, on the bed, wanting badly to deny the unspeakable crime he'd committed all unknowing. He felt the need ache in his gut like a malignant, cancerous growth. His sanity swayed and dipped as the assault on his certainties intensified, stripping away the cynicism that armoured him, leaving him naked and vulnerable to the coldness closing in on him.

It isn't true. Dear God, it can't be true ...

All at once McGee found himself praying to a deity he had never really believed existed. The hypocrisy went unheeded. Like so many others before him he had nowhere else to go, and only that faint insubstantial hope could sustain him in his first flush of inner knowledge. He moaned softly, blinded by the purgatory that had become his world; a dark world made by his own shocking diagnosis of what ailed him.

A clap of thunder cracked against his eardrums and flinched through his senses - a primeval, punishing blow. He teetered on the edge of an emotional whirlpool, the swirling confusion of his thoughts threatening to suck him under into insanity. All the years he'd spent alone had not prepared McGee for that whirlpool. Or ... maybe they had. Shrinking from it, he groped after elusive truth. Maybe those solitary years had prepared him too well.

He shuddered, the numbing questions flash-flooding his mind; questions he couldn't face, too afraid to answer them. His body trembled under the pressure of self-disgust that slammed down on him, smashing the mask of altruism he'd worn for so long.

He was in love with David Banner - had been for eons. There wasn't a moment when it hadn't been love, though he'd always covered that fact with a reporter's fascination for a good story. The ultimate coward, he had refused to see the truth behind his obsession; had shrouded it with his savage, unremitting hunt for the Hulk. What else could explain his willful blindness to the many clues pointing to the real identity of the elusive 'John Doe' during the frustrating years he'd tracked the creature?

The depth of his own self-deception sickened McGee. To clothe his true feelings in the guise of a more acceptable friendship was a betrayal he found very hard to live with. He wasn't with David because the other man needed him, but because he needed David. He had fed on the other man's warmth like a hedonistic vampire, allowing David to fill the empty places of his soul without once returning the gift.

Grey-faced, he lifted his head and stared across the room at the window, flinching from the bleak accusation he saw there. The mirrored reflection whispered to him, forcing him to see the man he had become; a recognition he'd escaped for many years.

He had known all along what had driven him to keep after the Hulk - and it wasn't that it was the 'story of the century', or because he'd wanted to help the man caught in a self-created nightmare. Rather, he had pursued the Hulk because something inside him had branded its human half his and his alone.

Sensations of guilt and emotional decay filled him, fuelling his fever, and he hated himself with the same deadly coldness he'd shown in his pursuit of the Hulk. With a shudder he recalled his attitude towards David Banner in the past year.

The surging memories choked McGee with an inherent mockery of the companionship and trust which had been his reward during his tenancy as a friend. He had played his part very well; the perfect guardian, chaining David to him. He'd made the scientist so dependant on their relationship that he would never feel the need to seek beyond McGee for other contacts. From the moment McGee had identified 'John Doe', David had been lost.

The growing self-hatred destroyed Jack McGee. He moaned softly and slid to the floor, wedged between bed and wall, and curled up into a tight ball. As wood split by an axe his inner defences fell apart, sundered by the unthinking cruelty he had practised in the name of friendship. Despair tore at his now tenuous control, shredding it, as he recalled how his eyes had devoured the wet, naked form in the bathroom. Voyeurism had never been his style, but those few moments spent watching David bathe had filled an emptiness in his existence, desolation retreating before the warmth of desire. Forever marooned in wastelands of self, he knew only the coldness of being alone. He wanted, yet feared, the burning touch of another human being - but not just anyone. He needed someone strong; someone as alone as he was himself. David, in his innocence and his own need, had reached across that gulf and gathered him close. A better man in all ways, the scientist had seen and accepted everything that had made Jack McGee an outsider in his own eyes.

McGee looked back down the well of memory and examined his life. He saw himself in the image of a cold fish, a creature with no warmth or humanity to offer a man like David Banner who had learned the priceless gift of being gentle with himself. David was a pool of serenity in a world gone mad; the pool had no need of the fish, but without the pool the fish could have no existence. Lost to the simile, he was unable to see the silvery beauty of the fast-moving forms of grace some fish in reality were. All he saw was the unfairness of his own conduct, the dishonesty of the tactics he'd used - albeit unconsciously.

That he could inflict that on David, a man he loved and respected! Was this how he repaid a man who had breathed life back into the deadness of his world? The grief and shame of it claimed him totally. He had broken every rule he'd ever made for himself, and his punishment would be terrible.

McGee choked back a cry of pain. There was nothing left. He had destroyed everything with the selfishness of a child, though his actions had in no way been childlike.

Stiffly he uncurled from his hiding place, his features haggard and old even in the kindly light of the bedside lamps. Vague with weariness, he felt as if he had just passed through a barrier of living flames, seared by his own judgement of himself, and there was very little left of the old McGee. Helplessly he looked around the room, uncertain of his right to be there. Blind no longer to his true nature, he knew he didn't belong there; that he had forfeited his place at David Banner's side. That hurt - even through senses already numbed by pain.

"Jack?"

The uncertain voicing of his name spun McGee around. Confused and lost, he met the sympathetic eyes of the man who'd been watching his lone battle from the open doorway of the bathroom. A dark tide of compassion flowed in and around him even as it branded him. He didn't deserve this kind of caring from David.

Hooked and held by the wordless blue gaze McGee stood frozen, his usual cool assurance deserting him, muscles locked tight with the new knowledge pounding at his brain. Fearfully he watched the slender man close the distance separating them. McGee opened his mouth, the muscles of his throat working as he fought his sudden attack of conscience. Yet there were no words, no excuses, no explanations he could offer. He looked at the smaller man, knowing David was everything he himself was not and never could be. Compared to David, he was no more than a primitive.

"Jack?"

Again his name came softly out of the darkness. The quiet voice closed McGee's eyes, the concern in its tone lashing him anew. Emotionally spent, he swayed on his feet - and cool hands caught his elbows in a firm grip, guiding him back to the bed. Silently he was urged to sit down. His willpower gone, he stared up at the grave face, his gaze following David as the man knelt in front of him and began to chafe his cold hands.

"What's wrong?"

McGee could only shake his head at the anxious query.

David bit his lip, then said, with quiet firmness; "I won't push it, but you must get those wet things off. Think you can manage?"

Briefly McGee nodded, and David released his hands. The inner traitor living in the reporter cried out against the loss. Clumsily he fumbled at the fastenings of his shirt, then looked up in defeat; a man of words, he had none now. It was an effort even to think.

As though David could read in his mind what he would not ask the scientist took over, pushing away his hands. In short order, McGee found himself undressed and between the sheets.

During this reversal of their usual roles no words were exchanged, and McGee didn't have the strength to protest. Indeed, he didn't want to; he was too tired - too defeated. His eyes were dark with that pain, and a gentle hand smoothed the damp hair from his forehead. He closed his eyes, unwilling to face the piercing understanding directed his way.

"Are you so afraid of me, my friend?"

So much pain.

The eyes opened slowly. McGee stared at David's face, the profound sadness in the other's expression impelling him to honesty.

"Yes." The word the barest whisper of sound.

David flinched, checking the hand stroking the soft hair. His gaze remained steady, however, as he seated himself on the bed beside McGee, again brushing back the dark hair with his fingers.

"Why?"

"Because we'll - I'll - destroy you." McGee's voice was harsh, sparing him nothing. "Because you're something that's never existed before in my world, David - a good man."

"Are you sure?" Infinitely tender, David fitted his palm against the world-weary face, fingertips resting feather light on one prominent cheekbone. He looked down into the heavy-lidded eyes, confronting the enemy that kept him at bay.

"What have you been fighting all your life, Jack? Why did you let the world drive you into yourself?"

"I couldn't fight. I'm not you."

"No, you're you." David's hold tightened, a fleeting reprimand.

Silence fell as he let go of McGee's face, a sigh escaping him. Suddenly he froze, eyes widening, some quality in McGee's stillness confirming a suspicion that had been growing for months in his mind. His face tautened into a mask of anger; an anger disguised in his voice by a complete flatness of tone.

"I'd like to kill him."

The matter-of-fact deadliness startled McGee into looking up. "Who?"

"The man who scarred you this badly."

The quiet reply drained the colour from Jack McGee's face. Stricken by the astute guess he could only stare at David, his body stiff with shock.

"How did you know?" he whispered. "How could you possibly know?"

"I see it in your eyes." Sombre, David gazed back over the past year, remembering times and places when McGee had seemed to set out deliberately to hurt him. He went on with an effort. "Sometimes I see a stranger in your eyes - watching, condemning - and I hate that stranger, Jack." David paused, visibly reasserting control. Once more in command of himself, he asked; "How old were you?"

"Twenty." Some of the colour returned to McGee's face as he answered, his voice growing stronger and more confident. "Too young to handle it; too old to be flexible enough to bend. I fought back, and I - broke."

The faded bitterness and resentment behind the words reached David, grabbing him by the throat. Involuntarily he stretched out his hand and covered McGee's as it lay, restless, on the coverlet. The thin fingers curled convulsively around his, then slackened their grip. David cleared his throat, understanding almost everything now.

"Did you ... love him?" he asked, amazed both at his own temerity and McGee's willingness to talk about his obviously painful past. He could not guess that this was the newsman's penance. Patiently he waited for McGee to reply, afraid that if he pushed too hard the reporter would clam up - and Jack needed this, even if he didn't realise it.

From the vantage point of twenty years on Jack McGee looked back to the youth he had once been, contemptuous of the child who'd been locked inside a man's body. Eventually he answered, his face taut with reviving memories.

"Yes - and I hated him, too."

"Why?" Cautiously David probed the wound, hating the remoteness of the half-shadowed man. "Why did you hate him, Jack?"

"Because he loved me." With bleak satisfaction McGee saw shock appear on the expressive face. "He gave me everything I needed or wanted - except the freedom to return the favour. As far as Neal was concerned there was nothing I could give him. There was no sharing." Lost in his memories, McGee forgot his captive audience as he flowed into the past, everything losing its clarity in a flare of achingly familiar resentment. "Neal was strong - sure of himself. He loved me, therefore I had to have everything I ever wanted. I had to be protected from everything that might hurt me. He was like a prison I couldn't escape - and I didn't want to, not at first. Yeah, I loved him, but his needs were always secondary to mine. I couldn't give. Always had to take."

"He smothered you."

The suppressed anger in that solitary utterance pulled McGee back to the here and now, strangely easing his long-buried guilt. He looked at the man seated beside him, into the stormy sea-coloured eyes which were fixed on his with an intensity that unnerved him. He cleared his throat, regaining the lost thread of the moment.

"Right. And I couldn't live with that."

"So you left him?"

"So ... I left him." McGee blinked and turned his face away as he made the last, unendurable confession. "He killed himself. That same night."

"My God." David breathed out the invocation and briefly shut his eyes. He opened them again and a deep, abiding hatred glinted ferally in their depths. He gazed down at the prone man, realising the price McGee had paid for his independence.

"The bastard," he finally got out. "How could he do that? How could any man lay that kind of guilt on a kid?"

"He loved me."

"He didn't know the meaning of the word!" The icy rage in David's voice shocked the reporter into looking at him as he continued. "Through his selfishness he destroyed the man you could have been! By committing suicide he tampered with your life as well, Jack. What kind of love is that?"

"The kind I've been practising, recently."

The quiet, almost matter-of-fact statement was a time bomb - and it exploded into the silence with shattering impact. Words ricochetted from the walls hedging David, their edges cutting him. The sentence in itself was ambiguous, but the underlying message was crystal clear.

Now it was David's turn to stumble and falter. He dropped his gaze to the carpet, eyes tracing its dark pattern as colour crept up under his tan to heat his face. His throat worked as he sought to break the deadlock, but words refused to come to his aid. Childishly he wanted to turn back the clock to the time, only hours before, when innocent ignorance had ruled his reactions - and he had been innocent, regarding Jack McGee. That one oblique reference to the real state of McGee's feelings towards him should have come as more of a surprise than it had - but he had known how the reporter felt about him, no matter how much he might wish to deny it. Only love could have endured the last twelve months.

A kind of helpless anger lit David's eyes as he glared down at the floor, unable to bring himself to meet the steady grey gaze.

Why? he questioned the silence despairingly. Why did it happen?

He didn't want McGee to love him; didn't want any kind of love at all. Love equalled only pain, and he was so tired of being hurt.

His eyes shut tightly, David flinched as two hands descended on his shoulders. His spine went rigid, then relaxed as he subdued the instinctive rejection. The hands tightened then fell away, and he glanced up at last. McGee was kneeling under the bedclothes, his face masked by shadows, though his pain was clearly audible in his voice.

"I'm sorry."

The weary apology cut through David's misery, slicing away the distorting resentment covering his commonsense. He twisted around to face the slim man, stretching out his hands to hold the strong wrists. The anguish between the two was so tangible it bonded them together in a tightening circle of emotion.

Making the first move, David slid his hands up to grasp the narrow shoulders, the tanned skin cold under his fingers. An inarticulate murmur of regret left him as he pulled the unresisting form down into his arms. McGee pressed his face into the curve of David's shoulder, his own grief growing beyond any concealment, but he allowed no tears to fall. Tears couldn't wash away the guilt echoing and growing between them. He was held by warm arms, but David's spirit was far away, in a place where McGee couldn't touch him, leaving no comfort in the embrace.

Time passed with excruciating slowness, and finally McGee withdrew from the impersonal warmth surrounding him. A bleak smile acknowledged his own defeat. In minutes he had lost something which had never truly been his - David Banner.

He swung from the bed and stood up, every line of his body revealing a proud man. He looked down at his seated companion, dragging a gentle smile from somewhere.

"Get some sleep, David," he suggested quietly, "while I go take a shower."

This feeble attempt at normality was disregarded. David stared up at him, his expression nakedly vulnerable. "Jack - "

A light finger sealed his lips. "It doesn't matter, David," he murmured. "I don't think it ever did."

"It does to me." David moved McGee's hand, allowing it to be pulled from his loose hold. He gazed at the shadowed man, his eyes very bright. "It always will."

The drawn face tightened, as if McGee had suddenly been slapped, then the gaunt features relaxed. He ruffled the dark brown hair, fingers lingering in the warm silk before he stepped back.

"I know."

Without another word McGee turned and walked from the room. With quiet finality he shut the door of the bathroom, symbolically ending the confrontation.

David propped himself upright with the pillows and stared for a long time at the blank bathroom door. He knew McGee was hoping he would fall asleep before he returned, and he was determined not to do anything of the sort. The reporter's words had been intended to calm him, but they had had the reverse effect. David, with all his intelligence and experience of the world, would scarcely have been human if he hadn't resented the slightly patronising attitude McGee had adopted. He knew Jack saw him as the vulnerable one and himself as the protector - and there were times, such as tonight, when he was content to act out that role - but it often seemed to him that McGee was the one in need of protection from the world and its wickedness and no-one but David Banner was around to volunteer for the job.

On a shelf beneath the nightstand sat a pile of ancient and well-thumbed copies of Newsweek and the National Geographic. David selected one at random and began to scan through it absent-mindedly in an attempt to distract himself like a patient in a dentist's waiting-room, three-quarters of his attention focused on the bathroom door. An account of the deleterious effects of deforestation on the tribes of the Amazon delta had just engaged his interest when, suddenly and without warning, the lights went out. A yelp of surprise sounded from the direction of the man in the shower cubicle.

David was out of bed and had his hand on the bathroom door handle before he had a chance to ask himself what on earth he was so worried about.

"Jack? What is it?"

The room was in total darkness. There was the sound of McGee fumbling with the shower controls, and the flow of water diminished to nothing.

"It's okay." Cautiously, Jack stepped out of the shower and groped around, searching for a towel. David found it first and handed it to him. "The water went cold when the lights died, that's all. Power's down, I suppose?" He rested a hand on Banner's shoulder in a gesture that both sought and offered comfort.

"Looks like it. This storm's doing a lot of damage, Jack - first the landslip, now the power. It could be some time before we get out of here."

Jack was towelling himself vigorously. When he had finished he handed the towel back to David and cast around for the pyjama pants he'd set aside to put on. He couldn't find them. Swearing softly he located a hotel bathrobe he'd noticed earlier hanging up on the back of the door, and with some difficulty shrugged into it.

"What about the phone?" he asked.

"I don't know. Who would you call?"

"The Register. They'd probably prefer REPORTER CAUGHT IN TORNADO to CRAZY OLD LADY SEES FLYING SAUCERS." Twenty-five years of news-gathering instincts suddenly surfaced in him, returning a sense of proportion to his overheated brain. His problems, and David's, and their problems with their relationship, were important only to them. Out in the wider world beyond the walls of the Cliffside Inn the storm was busy wrecking buildings and stealing lives in a way which made their emotional maelstrom look no more of a threat than ripples on a millpond. In the face of the buffetting of the elements David's presence was comforting rather than disturbing; it represented security, a refuge from the storm. This fact didn't remove the guilt that had all but overwhelmed him, but it certainly helped to mitigate it. With a sudden judder like a dog shaking itself dry he pushed past David and out into the bedroom, reaching in the darkness for where he knew the phone to be.

A hammering on the door stopped him before he could lift the receiver. David, who was nearest, wrenched the door open and Eddie Nils half-tumbled in, out of breath, a flashlight clenched in his hand and an expression of desperation on his face.

"You guys okay?" he asked as, without ceremony, he entered the room and sat down on the end of David's bed. He didn't wait for an answer, but went on. "Power's out, phone's out and we've lost part of the roof. The radio station's telling people to stay indoors. There's ships missing, and a helicopter - people dead, houses down all over the county. They're saying it's the worst storm in fifty years; winds up to sixty knots over a coupla hundred square miles - the worst of it won't reach us here for another hour or two. It's gonna take us years to recover from this."

Jack McGee noted the concern in the old voice. Eddie was close to tears - and who could blame him? The Inn was obviously his whole life - everything he had was tied up in bricks and mortar. He was bound to have good insurance - the local tourist authority would have seen to that - but any damage to the fabric of the building now could make him late opening up for the season, and that could ruin him. He'd come to like the old man, and to feel sorry for him.

"You mentioned the roof was damaged," he said, surprising himself with the compassion in his tone. "Is there anything we can do?"

"Well ... " Eddie sounded reluctant. "I wouldn't ask if there was anybody else here," he assured them, unhappily. "I know you guys are already exhausted, and I don't have any right to ask you, but - if we could just get a tarp over the hole in the roof maybe we could prevent any more damage. I've got some oilskins you can wear - keep 'em for guests who want to try the fishing - you can put them on over your pyjamas." Tactfully he ignored the fact that McGee wasn't wearing pyjamas.

McGee and Banner exchanged glances; Jack's concerned, David's slightly amused. McGee's willingness to help out made an odd contrast with his obviously unfavourable mental picture of himself. Wrestling with a tarpaulin in the middle of a hurricane was hardly what the doctor ordered for exhaustion, but the chance to be of some use was obviously not to be missed.

"Why not?" mused David, smiling in the torchlight. "Lead on," he suggested to Eddie, and was rewarded by the look of relief that crossed his face.

"This way," was the swift response. "And thanks."

The wind speed had decreased slightly by the time they had pulled on oilskins and boots from a stock kept by Eddie in his own room. Briefly they ducked into the garage to rummage for another flashlight, a tarpaulin and an assortment of ends of rope in the chaos behind Eddie's ancient pickup truck. The gusting continued, however, and their exit from the building was made to the accompaniment of snapping and creaking sounds from all directions as the trees surrounding the hotel bent and broke beneath the force of the wind. A dull distant roar like a bellowing diapason underscored the chaotic symphony; the two travellers identified it as the sound of the sea, just invisible beyond a slight fold in the land, and shuddered. On this unprotected coast there was constant danger to shipping even in ordinary conditions, and this night was far from being ordinary. Twigs, leaves and other small debris whipped through the air, stinging their faces as they moved away from the lee of the building.

David shivered and pulled the knitted cap he wore more tightly down over his ears in the hopes that it would block out some of the noise of the raging storm. For a moment he crept close to Jack McGee's side and gripped his arm, offering and seeking reassurance.

Eddie led the way, his face grey and drawn in the torchlight. He gave directions in the form of hand signals, since the spoken word would have been whipped away from his lips by the roaring of the wind. The only light in the world came from the flashlights he and Jack carried; the moon, high and frightened-looking, cast only the minimum of sharp silver light between torn edges of cloud and vanished again before it could be of assistance to them. For all the three men knew they might be the last human beings alive in the world - a world which had suddenly been returned to the primeval days of its creation. It was enough to make any thinking man believe in a supernatural power, whatever name he chose to give it.

Jack McGee had no time for philosophical speculation even had he been the type to indulge in such a practice. His horizons were limited to the man ahead and the task they had undertaken, and to the small figure of David Banner who walked beside him through the storm and, far from needing comfort, had seemed to offer it.

The damaged section of roof was over a single-storey extension at the rear of the hotel which was exposed to the worst of the weather but, mercifully, not so high off the ground as to make climbing up to it particularly dangerous even in these trying conditions.

The way up lay over the pent roof of an outhouse which abutted the extension. Jack went first, his feet finding precarious footholds on overloaded rainwater pipes. When he had gained the sloping roof of the extension he turned back to take the tarp and the ropes from David, and then again to give the other man a hand to scramble up beside him. Both made themselves secure on the roof before reaching down again to help Eddie up to join them.

Inching forward in the light from Eddie's torch, Jack found the place where a couple of dozen shingles had been ripped from the roof. The tarp wasn't going to be large enough to sheet down the whole roof, but it would certainly cover this particular hole and help protect the interior of the building. That would be fine as long as there was no further damage; trying to offset the effects of the hurricane was not unlike trying to empty the sea with a sieve - or, McGee realised, glancing up at David as they unrolled the tarp across the black gap in the roof, trying to keep his feelings for this man under control.

Confronted by the physical equivalent of his own emotional turmoil, McGee began to understand just how impossible it would be to defy it. The storm was unstoppable - it would roll over people and places wreaking whatever havoc it chose. The mere humans in its path had no alternative but to seek some safe haven and cling together for protection. So it was with himself and David - he was only trying to delay the inevitable. He was fighting against himself, wasting his strength in a battle he could never win. He might just as well settle back and allow the storm to take him where it would.

Into the reeling, spinning world of the hurricane came an explosion like a dynamite blast, followed by a piercing scream from Eddie that was snatched away by the wind even as it left his mouth. Something smashed into Jack's face, jolting him off balance and throwing him backwards. For a moment he looked into the appalled eyes of David Banner - and then the world crashed around him and he felt himself flying through the disturbed blackness of the night, to be slammed against the ground as though thrown down by some petulant giant.

Every bone suddenly sent a message of agony to his brain. He lay limp, robbed of the power to cry out but forced to watch as the perfidious light of the moon revealed the last moments of a huge sycamore tree which had selected, as its death-bed, the area of roof to which David and Eddie had been clinging only moments before.

"David!"

The shout might have been a whisper for all the impact it made on the screaming of the night. Painfully he wrenched himself around onto his knees, attempted to rise, and discovered that one of the numerous centres of agony in his body had located itself in his right ankle, making it impossible for him to stand. He inched forward, on hands and knees, towards the building, repeating David's name over and over to himself in shock. He was conscious enough to realise the futility of calling out, but shock and confusion clouded his brain and left him unable to act rationally or even put his thoughts into coherent sequence. He concentrated only on his need to find David, the fate of the hotel owner utterly irrelevant as, on his knees, he approached the fallen tree.

Before his eyes the wooden carcass shifted again, leaping upright towards its original position. A cry from beneath the trunk drowned out the gusting of the wind and riveted McGee to the ground with a mixture of terror and relief. Shards of the demolished roof scattered from the ruined branches, and in the seconds before the moon again dived behind tattered clouds he was able to discern the sickly sheen of pale green skin as the Creature thrust the tree out of its way and turned towards him.

"David ... thank God ... " he breathed softly to himself. He knew enough about David's unique predicament to understand that his transformation into the Hulk at this point had probably saved his life.

Jack McGee had lost any fear of the Creature a very long time ago - even before he'd adopted David Banner into his life. He was able to perceive the advantages of superhuman strength, particularly in adverse conditions such as these. There had only been a few transformations in the year they'd been together and Jack was even beginning to learn how to communicate with David's alter-ego.

The Creature loped over and knelt by him, a massive green hand ruffling Jack's wind-whipped hair affectionately.

McGee caught the hand. "David! Where's Eddie?"

The green hand enfolded his, but otherwise the Creature made no response.

"David, you've got to find Eddie. He could be hurt." McGee was shouting, his face only inches from the Creature's ear.

The Hulk glanced around, slow-witted indecision on its coarse features. Then it turned back, hauled McGee up into its arms with a delicacy that would have done credit to a mother with a new-born baby, and set off thus to search.

They found Eddie by the outhouse, flat on his back with his eyes closed. One of the flashlights had fallen beside him but was still alight, casting an eerie yellow glow across his face. The Creature set McGee down carefully beside the old man, and then squatted on its haunches and watched quizzically as the reporter made a rudimentary attempt to examine the man.

"Dammit, David, this is more in your line than mine!" McGee protested, looking up into the Creature's gentle eyes. "As far as I can tell he's okay - just unconscious. He's breathing normally, there's no obvious head injury, but I can't tell if he's got any broken bones. It could be dangerous to move him, but if we don't get him indoors he's going to die anyway. You carry him, I'll follow."

The Creature turned its attention back to Eddie and glanced at the fallen man doubtfully. Then it looked back at McGee, and reached out a massive hand once more to ruffle his hair affectionately. It was the gesture of an adult to a much-loved child.

The Hulk shifted position and lifted Eddie up into its capable arms. Rising, it took a firmer hold on the unconscious man and strode away in the direction of the hotel's rear entrance. McGee, left behind on the sodden ground in the middle of the hurricane, shrugged, grabbed at the flashlight, and dragged himself after them.

In the darkened lobby of the little hotel the Creature set Eddie Nils down across a row of chairs with all the gentleness that might have been expected of a medical orderly, before turning back to look for McGee. The reporter was crawling along the passageway that led from the rear entrance past the kitchens, the flashlight he had retrieved from the ground outside still clamped stubbornly between his fingers, its beam rising and falling with every movement.

When he saw the Hulk approaching he stopped and waited to be lifted. As he was pulled up into the Creature's firm hold, instinctively he threw both arms around its neck and hugged tight. When David was like this - when the Creature took his place - almost all the fine intelligence was subordinated to strength. However, something of David remained - some set of basic directives, some ingrained instruction to preserve life rather than endanger it, some measure of the compassion that had driven him to risk his own life in the cause of medical research. That inherent programming showed itself in the Creature as an exaggerated care for Jack McGee and his interests, a devotion that was almost doglike in its uncritical loyalty. There was little McGee could do to repay this tender care but try to communicate his trust by resting his head on the broad shoulder and allowing himself to be carried into the hotel. And if the situation seemed natural to the Hulk, it seemed no less so to Jack McGee, who saw no incongruity in drowsing comfortably in the Creature's arms.

"Do you remember anything afterwards?" he'd asked, during their first days together.

"Not much." David's reply came back to him through the mists of memory. "I remember anger, pain - the trigger. After that - vague impressions of running amok, breaking things, hurting people. Destruction and confusion. It's like being very, very drunk."

Since that time McGee had isolated more than a dozen newspaper reports of positive actions by the Hulk - the rescue from a house fire of a twelve year old girl, taking the brunt of the impact when a runaway car threatened to plough into a schoolyard, plucking a suicidal young woman from a swollen canal, grabbing at the ropes of a breakaway helium balloon and returning its passenger safely to the ground. There, buried deep beneath layers of superstition, was evidence that David Banner's essential humanity shone through and guided the Creature's footsteps. David, however, was unconvinced. He remembered only the bad times, not the good. He was the one person in the universe most afraid of the Hulk's potentially destructive powers. McGee had made it his business to try and break through the barrier of David's own guilt; in an amazing about-face, he was doing his best to convince David of the Creature's more acceptable qualities.

The Creature set McGee down in a chair close to Eddie's head, and the reporter played the flashlight over the injured man before smiling up into innocent green eyes.

"Thanks, David. He'll be fine now. Don't worry about him."

The Hulk tilted its head to one side, watching him with childlike amusement for a moment. Then, with infinite care, it touched a finger to his lips - mirror-image of the gesture Jack had used earlier.

"Yeah, and I'm fine too, my friend." Huskily he answered the unvoiced question.

Still the Hulk seemed undecided, unwilling to leave him alone. McGee knew it needed a refuge, a quiet, safe place in which to recover and change back into the familiar form of David Banner. He reached out and patted the nearest shoulder.

"Go on, David. I'll take care of Eddie until you get back. Take it easy, now."

The Creature needed no further prompting. Its strength was beginning to fade and, like all ailing creatures, it sought instinctively for solitude. Slowly it moved backwards, out of the tight circle of torchlight. It turned away, and loped off with unsteady gait towards the interior of the hotel. McGee longed to follow, to be there for when David regained his senses, but neither the pain in his ankle nor his duty to Eddie would allow of it. Instead he settled down to watch and wait, hoping it would not be too long before David returned to him and they could begin to make some sense of the untidy situation they found themselves in.

It was not immediately apparent to Jack McGee just what was the matter with Eddie Nils. He had assumed a confident air in front of the Creature, wanting to send messages of reassurance to David that Eddie was not seriously hurt and that such injuries as he had received had been accidental and not the Hulk's fault. His confidence, however, had had very little basis in fact. He'd learned a little First Aid, more years ago than he cared to remember, but that didn't take him far in a situation like this. Eddie's skin was cool and clammy - he thought that probably indicated shock, which didn't strike him as being too desperate a condition. Struggling with chilled fingers and the ungainly flashlight he prised open each of Eddie's eyes in turn, and noticed that their pupils were of normal size and responsive to light. That seemed like a good sign. The only other thing he could think of to do was try and wrench the hotel owner into the recovery position, and he did his best within the limits imposed by the furniture to pull Eddie over onto one side and give him an unobstructed airway.

The man's cold skin worried him. Even inside the hotel the temperature had dropped considerably since the start of the storm - he imagined that the heating must have been electrically-powered. He could do with a blanket to cover Eddie, and wondered whether he could make it as far as the nearest bedroom to obtain one. Experimentally he made an attempt at standing, but it was not a success. The injured ankle refused to co-operate, and he collapsed to his knees. He could crawl, he supposed, but it would take a week. Cursing his own stupidity he settled down again - this time on the floor beside Eddie's makeshift bed - and waited for David to return.

He'd made David dependant on him, had he? Turned a brilliant scientist into a clinging infant with no refuge other than himself? Who was he trying to fool? He pictured himself being carried into the lobby by the gigantic Creature half the United States had come to fear, and remembered the easy way his arms had slid around its neck and his head had come to rest on its shoulder. Oh yes, there were excellent intellectual reasons for what he had done, excuses a-plenty he could offer himself and David, but what it came down to in the end was that he had needed that strength and comfort and the security of those arms around him. He'd enjoyed holding and being held by the Creature. And the Creature - need he remind himself? - was David. Didn't he cling to David just as tightly as David clung to him? Hadn't he come to be grateful for the Hulk's protection over the past year? Hadn't they been there for each other during every major and minor crisis life had thrown at them?

He knew the answers to these questions already. He and David were the closest of friends, and their relationship was in equilibrium. There was no inequality, as there had been with Neal; with David, he was able to give and to take in equal measure. That acknowledged, didn't it free him to ask for something else for himself? Wasn't the recognition of their total interdependence enough to permit him to ...

"Jack? Where are you? I can't see." The thin wavering voice cut into his reverie, filling him with instant concern.

"David? In the lobby. Follow the sound of my voice."

"Okay ... " There were vague traces of panic in the distant tone - post-transition shock, David had called it. "Keep talking, though."

McGee made a conscious effort to pull himself together. "Listen, David, maybe I was wrong, before. I don't know - I'm not sure about anything any more. I just didn't want to smother you. If we have ... any kind of relationship ... I don't want it to be based on gratitude or pity or ... "

"Jack!" David came bursting into the circle of torchlight almost naked, his pyjama trousers seemingly only remaining on his body out of habit since they were ripped almost to shreds. He wore no other clothing, and his hair and body were slick with rainwater. For just a second McGee was able to understand what it had been like for him, waking from his nightmare alone, cold and wet in the total darkness of an unfamiliar place. Before he knew what he was doing he had extended his arms and drawn David down into a fierce hug.

"I'm fine," David managed to say, breaking away unsteadily. "Are you injured?"

"Not much, but Eddie is. Concussion, I think. You'd better take a look at him."

David pulled free of the hug but rested a hand on Jack's shoulder as he leaned over Eddie. Carefully he repeated the checks McGee had already made, and when he had completed them he nodded thoughtfully.

"You're right, Doctor McGee," he said, almosy buoyantly. "It looks like simple concussion. He should have an X-ray as soon as possible, but I think he'll be okay. Was it me ... ?" The tone of his voice changed dramatically and he seemed unable to ask the question he found so painful.

"That hurt him? No. As far as I could tell, you both fell off the roof at the same time. You saved his life - and mine, yet again. A tree fell down and demolished the roof we were trying to save - poor old guy's gonna be weeks clearing up."

David's gaze lowered thankfully; although he was sorry for Eddie's plight, he was grateful it had been no worse. But there had been a tremor in McGee's voice not accounted for by the reassuring nature of his words. He glanced across sharply at the reporter.

"You're shivering," he said, suddenly.

"Brilliant deduction, Holmes," laughed McGee, spontaneously. "I'm cold and wet and I can't move - I think my ankle could be broken. Looks like that fireplace over there is already laid up with logs and kindling - if you could find some matches, maybe we could get a blaze going and warm ourselves up? There's no way we can move Eddie out of this lobby tonight," he added, realising David hadn't had time to think it right through.

"Sure - matches." David hauled himself upright and, taking the flashlight, began to rummage behind the reception counter that ran along one side of the lobby. It was not long before he had discovered a box of matches and moved across to the fireplace, attempting to light the fire. "I was never very good at this," he said, wistfully.

"Don't worry - the way the wind's blowing we'll probably get more smoke than fire anyway."

After taking several minutes and almost the entire box of matches, the fire had sufficient hold for David to draw back from it and allow Jack McGee to examine his handiwork. Feeble flames began to gain a tentative hold first on paper, then on kindling, and finally on the logs at the back of the fire. When he was satisfied that it was burning well, he drew away and turned back to McGee.

"Now, I guess we need something dry to wear - and blankets," he mused. "Mind if I take the flashlight?"

"I think you'd better. Try Eddie's room again - he seemed to have all kinds of stuff in there."

Within a couple of minutes David had returned, bringing with him a bundle comprised of blankets, towels and dry clothing. With McGee's help he managed to slide the oilskins off Eddie's unconscious form - although the pyjamas and sweater he wore proved too much of an obstacle - dry his hair and skin and wrap him in two of the blankets. His skin temperature had begun to improve slightly, and the clamminess had left him. It seemed likely he would wake up in his own good time with no ill-effects from his uncomfortable night.

Next David assisted his partner out of the drenched oilskins and sweater he had borrowed from Eddie, easing boots and pants carefully over the injured ankle. With a doctor's detachment he helped Jack to wriggle into a pair of tracksuit pants far too short for him, and then threw him two shapeless sweaters which looked as if they had been made for King Kong. They smelled extremely unpleasant, but were warm and soft and McGee accepted them gracefully.

David turned his attention to Jack's damaged ankle, probing carefully at the site of the swelling that had already bloated the joint. After a few minutes he looked up and smiled.

"There's no fracture," he said. "Looks like you just tore the tendons. I'll put a support bandage on it for you." He got up to head for the kitchen, where he had noticed a huge and comprehensive-looking First Aid kit.

"No you won't." The tone in Jack McGee's voice was dangerous, stopping David in his tracks. "C'mon, David, use a little sense. Dry yourself out and put some clothes on - my ankle can wait."

David shot him a rueful smile. "You're right again, Doctor," he said, reaching for the towel McGee handed up to him.

Without embarrassment he shucked off what little remained of the pyjama trousers and towelled his skin dry before clambering into more of the garments he had salvaged from Eddie's store. He pulled on bluejeans that were the right length but needed to be pulled in tight around the middle, being made for a man with a much larger waist, and a thick sweatshirt advertising 'Southern Comfort'. He both felt and looked extremely bizarre wearing clothes several sizes too large for him. Towelling the last of the water out of his hair he sat down beside McGee and produced, from within the bundle, two pairs of woollen socks. He pulled on one pair, and assisted McGee to slip his feet into the others. When the whole procedure was finished, both men felt a great deal warmer.

"Now what?" asked Jack McGee, as they sat side-by-side and stared into the flames.

"I'll get your bandage." David was arranging the remaining blankets over his friend's legs, tucking them in close against him.

"No need to hurry," smiled McGee. "You've done enough. Stay and warm up." He lifted the edge of the blankets and drew David in beside him, wrapping an arm companionably around his shoulders.

David relaxed against him, unsurprised by the easy intimacy of their position. "What was that you were saying earlier?" he asked, softly. "About being wrong?"

"Hmmm. I decided I was trying to smother you - make you dependant on me," was the carefully-judged reply. "I was swamping you - maybe I got something out of it, I don't know. Maybe I needed to feel needed. At any rate, that's not my idea of love; you're a separate person with your own identity. I shouldn't be trying to change you."

"Are you trying to tell me you love me?" Given the subject-matter of the conversation, David was surprised to find his own tone so calm and rational. He had never had cause to contemplate enjoying a homosexual relationship before, but now that he examined the prospect he found nothing in the least degree frightening or sordid about it. Since Jack McGee had walked into his world half a lifetime ago the concept had gradually lost any terrors it may once have held. If that was what Jack wanted, he would not hesitate.

"Yes."

David laughed softly. "You don't know what you're saying," he advised, sagely. "What you're saying is that you've learned to love yourself. You're out from under that man's shadow, Jack. You're free!"

"David?" A desperate uncertainty seized him and he half-turned to face the other man, unconsciously completing the embrace. "You ... love me?"

Banner regarded him levelly. "Don't you know?" he asked, sounding aggrieved. "Can't you tell?"

Jack McGee's eyes lowered and he tightened his hold, his tone troubled. "Yes," he admitted, cautiously, "but you act as if you're afraid. Why? Is it me?"

"Love is always frightening," was the unexpected reply. "When you love someone - you run the risk of losing them. It's happened to me before ... Elaina ... Caroline ... " He pronounced the two names with infinite care. Two women whom he had loved, and who had loved him, had died; both had died in traumatic circumstances, and he blamed the Hulk in both cases.

"I won't leave you, David." The assurance contained much more confidence than McGee felt, but it sounded good.

"It doesn't matter if you do." David's voice was strangely flat, his tone dismissive. "I'm past the point where I had a choice, Jack. I just can't live without you any more."

Slowly he leaned forward, eyes never leaving the widening sea-grey gaze, and laid his mouth against warm, thin lips that parted involuntarily under his delicate touch, forgiving and seeking forgiveness.

McGee gave an inarticulate murmur, the light pressure driving him beyond control. He pushed David back, following to pin the smaller man to the floor as he deepened the kiss. David didn't struggle against the fierce possession, intoxicated by the moist, silky tongue twining with his. He whimpered in his throat, gasping for air when McGee released his mouth, and shuddered, sweat breaking out on his skin - the cold sweat of fear. Never before had he surrendered control so completely as he was doing now. It terrified him. He didn't know whether he wanted to beg McGee to stop - or to go on.

"You're afraid." A statement.

"Never of you," retorted David swiftly, his voice shaking. He watched McGee move away, feeling the chill of the tiny distance, yet relieved all the same. An uncomfortable silence descended as McGee lay beside him, propped on one elbow, eyes unfathomable in the flickering firelight.

Calm, McGee told himself, breathing deeply. You've got to be calm. He isn't ready for this. You aren't ready. Don't rush it.

The words became a litany, echoing through his mind. His breathing slowed as he regained command over himself. He looked down at David's flushed face and a wry smile curved his mouth.

"I'm sorry. Maybe it's too soon for that."

A hand curled around his as David shook his head, silently denying the need for an apology. McGee gripped the hand, the only contact he allowed himself while he waited for David to re-establish himself in the framework of his own image. He gave a tiny shake of his head, his eyes travelling slowly over the other man's face. He could still feel the silk of warm skin against his lips, the hardness of David's body under his hands ...

Even though he had dreamed of this moment, the reality had far outstripped such gossamer stuff. Making love to David would be an unbelievable experience, he suspected, but the first time would be the touchstone of their relationship, and the floor of a hotel lobby in the middle of a hurricane was neither the time nor the place he would have chosen for this.

"Why do you love me?"

The softly spoken question startled McGee. He blinked down at David, his brow furrowing in puzzlement as he dragged his attention back to the present. A lopsided grin lightened his expression as he shook his head.

"I don't know."

The rueful honesty served to put the perspective back into David's life, and for the first time he smiled. "That's a good answer."

"I aim to please."

A thread of laughter broke in David's throat. He sat up and hugged the reporter tightly. "Oh, I do love you, Jack!"

"You - " Words failed McGee. He pushed David far enough away so that he could look at the half-serious, half-laughing face. He held David by the arms, suddenly doubting his own sanity.

"It's true," smiled David, his eyes sparkling with iridescent amusement that softened to tenderness. "Why does that surprise you? You're easy to love."

"Me?"

"Yes, you. Stop doubting, Jack."

Laughter growled in McGee's throat, but it faded soon enough as he continued to stare at David.

I do love you. The words repeated themselves over and over in McGee's mind, encircling his disbelief. He had to believe. Love to David did not mean power-plays or selfishness; love invariably meant pain. Until now David had always lost, and McGee understood that this was the reason why the scientist had shied away from even the remotest suggestion of involvement. With him, however, David had been trapped before he'd even realised there was any danger.

Tenderness gentled the lean face. McGee pulled David back into his arms. He smiled as the smaller man settled against him without a murmur, pillowing his forehead against his shoulder.

The passion shimmering between them lay quiescent as they propped each other up, both exhausted by the physical hardships they had endured as well as by their own emotional turmoil.

Outside the storm still raged, but the thickness of the old walls muted its roar to the comforting level of a friendly voice; a murmuring music. A timeless serenity closed upon them, calmingly, and McGee was reluctant to spoil the mood, yet knew it had to be done.

"We must talk."

The husky voice sounded unnaturally loud and David winced, though he made no effort to move.

"Not yet."

The weary request held McGee silent even though he knew David was ducking the issue - yet his impatience was tempered by relief. He didn't want to think. He wanted only to exist in the haven they had, somehow, miraculously created out of confusion. Close, they clung to each other; children alone in the dark.

Tenderly McGee stroked the dark hair as he laid a feather light caress against the damp temple. This was not how he had ever envisaged they would share the night hours. The last year had sent him many dreams - unconnected, vague - the morning blinding the truth that had given him sight. If it happened again, this time, he didn't think he would survive it. If the phantom in his arms dissolved with the daylight, it would take the last of Jack McGee's sanity with it - and he wouldn't care. The love he knew now, the love he had acknowledged and admitted openly for the first time, was worth any price he might be called upon to pay.

Dropping a last, silent kiss into David's damp hair, he let exhaustion claim him.

Eddie's groan of pain snapped David into wakefulness some hours later, just as the sun was beginning to find its way around the battered ramparts of the old building.

"Aw, Jeez, what the hell was I drinking last night?"

David sprang out of Jack McGee's loose, sleepy embrace and scrabbled over to where the old man lay, lifting his head painfully and staring around with eyes that saw little.

"Mr Nils? Eddie? How are you feeling?"

"Uh ... hold on, you're ... yeah, that's it, Dave something." He dropped back down onto the seat, clutching the back of his neck. "We went out to sheet down a hole in the roof. What happened after that?"

David helped him into a sitting position and cautiously inspected the bruising on the back of his head and neck. "You fell off the roof. I'm afraid we couldn't get the tarpaulin across - a tree fell down and smashed the roof; there's a lot of damage."

Eddie groaned. "You know, my wife kept on telling me to get that tree cut down - the big sycamore close by the building. Wish I'd listened to her. You guys both okay?"

David glanced down to where Jack lay, just edging towards consciousness. "I think Jack sprained his ankle, but I'm not hurt. The main thing is that you need an X-ray for that injury as soon as possible. How can we get in touch with the emergency services?"

"There's a CB in the truck," Eddie informed him, shakily. "Am I allowed to move?"

"Not out to the truck, that's for sure. I'll go - tell me the right callsign."

"Okay, I use 'Seagull'. You used a CB before?"

"No."

"You just switch it on and punch the red button on the right-hand side. That gives you the pre-set emergency channel. Then you just call 'CQ Emergency'. Don't forget to keep stopping to listen for the reply, though," he smiled, thinly.

"Switch on, red button, 'CQ Emergency this is Seagull' - right?"

"You got it."

"I'll do it right away," David informed him, competently. "Want me to help you over to the fire first?"

"Yeah, thanks. You two both slept out here on the floor?"

David smiled, a light of reminiscence in his eyes. "Yes, we did. We couldn't move you, and Jack could only crawl. It made sense."

Eddie nodded, cautiously, a spasm of pain contorting his face at the movement. "Would I be right in thinking you two are pretty close?"

Helping the older man lower himself down in front of the sullen glow of the log fire, David paused a moment, shocked. Then common-sense returned in a flood and he wondered how on earth he could have imagined any implied criticism in the gentle words. "Very close."

"Uh-huh. Doesn't bother me, Dave. I have an idea I owe you guys my life. If you can - if you'd like to - well, I'd be happy to have you stay on a few days as my guests. Maybe you'd consider staying around a day or two?"

It wasn't a difficult decision to make, after all. Eddie would need a lot of help with the hotel just now, and Jack wasn't in a fit state to travel - even if they hadn't already totalled their car. Besides, a few days away from the world would give them the opportunity to examine their new relationship and come to terms with all its implications. Days - and nights - when they could be themselves and be together, all external pressures removed. It was too good a chance to miss.

He looked down, past the stunned Eddie, to where McGee lay on the floor by the fire. He hadn't moved a fraction but his eyes were wide open and fearful, anxiously awaiting David's answer.

"Oh, I think we have a few days to spare," he told the hotel owner, softly. "Thank you - we're happy to accept."

He watched McGee's eyes close in helpless relief, studied the relaxed face for only the briefest of moments, and then headed for the exit to find the truck and call in the emergency services. The storm had done all the damage it was going to. Now they - and Eddie - could begin to build for the future.

[ Sue's Slash Fiction ] [ BritSlash Fiction Archive ] [ BritSlash Contents Page ]