A/N: This is a piece of nothing that just wanted to be written. Kinda feeling that way out right now. Sometimes we're all David. Sometimes we're all the Creature. Sometimes, we're all Emma. And sometimes we need to tell our Emmas how grateful we are for them. So, to my own Emmas who may read this, thank you and I love you.

The title is taken from a line in The Who- song, I'm One.

Disclaimer: Stan Lee and Jack Kirby created The Incredible Hulk. Kenneth Johnson adapted it for television in the late 70s. Bill Bixby brought David Banner to life with supreme aplomb and Lou Ferrigno created a legend of all his own with his portrayal of the Hulk. I only own the box set and spin-off films. Not the rights or anything, just physical copies!

Comedown is Calling

Have you ever screamed?

I don't mean a shrill yelp when you accidentally spill hot coffee on yourself, or when you see a giant spider scurrying across your bedroom floor. I mean a visceral, primal scream, the opening floodgates of emotion that your body can't contain. It isn't controlled by intellect, by wisdom, by societal boundaries. It's a raw and unfiltered outpouring of rage, frustration, anger, helplessness. It doesn't take into account who you are, where you are, or how much energy you have. Adrenaline kicks in and the scream releases itself from somewhere deep inside your gut. You scream until you run out of air. You keep screaming until your lungs scream right back at you to breathe again. You scream until your throat is so dry you can't close your mouth. You scream until the back of your eyes burn so much you fear they'll explode. Your face hurts as it contorts itself into an ugly, nightmarish caricature of what you really look like, your entire body tingles as the scream continues to unleash itself. The screaming continues undeterred. It is either unaware, careless, or even spurred on by how much pain you're in. Sometimes your scream turns into a barrage of unbridled sobs, ripping through your body like a juggernaut. The sobs don't always come complete with tears. And then, when the fury is over, the storm is passed and the darkness has faded away, your body slowly heals itself. You are exhausted. You sleep as soundly as a child. You pick yourself up and you learn to move on, from necessity if not from desire. You can't stay down. The struggle for survival dictates that we carry on.

That scream is the last thing I remember before blacking out. Every time.

I don't know where I am now. Some back alley near the bar I'm working at, I guess. I don't know how I got here. I know he brought me here. My torn shirt and missing shoes are his calling cards. He's been here.

I was trying to help. Two big guys were hassling a girl at the bar. Emma. She doesn't officially work there, but her uncle owns the place and she often drops by during the day, helping out with chores. A nice kid. A nice kid who was in danger. Her hands were shaking and her eyes were wide, almost resigned to fate, the whole rabbit-in-headlights deal. She's tiny, she can't be any more than five feet tall, and her frame is so small she looks as though she'd snap in a strong breeze. There was no way she could fight both of them off. The other bartenders on duty had looked worried, but nobody dared say anything. I guess they were pretty big guys, after all.

At first I 'accidentally' spilled beer on them to cause a diversion for her to escape, but she looked too afraid to get out of her seat to run to safety. They were only momentarily distracted before turning their attention back to her. I asked them to leave, pointed out how uncomfortable she was, and suggested they pick on someone their own size. All right, so I may have dropped in some smartass line about the Bride of Frankenstein, but that's beside the point. I tried to help, even though I knew it was going to earn me a smack in the mouth. No matter where you go, the bullies are all the same. They see me, trying to be the tough guy, telling them their behaviour is unacceptable, and they laugh at me. I can't blame them. Here I am, a scrawny guy with a big mouth – they think I'm an easy target, that I'll get knocked down and stay down for my own sake. Until he shows up. David gets knocked down, and the Creature gets up, screaming for vengeance.

What did I do?

The familiar yet always uncomfortable anxiety starts welling up inside me, as though I'm drowning from the inside. I struggle for air and grab hold of the edge of the step I'm sitting on in an attempt to ground myself in the moment. What did I do? Is Emma safe? Are those men safe? I only wanted them to leave her alone, I didn't want to hurt anyone. I never want to hurt anyone. I don't know if I trust him to do the same.

It isn't that I have no recollection of what happened at all, as though he were a person completely independent of me, operating from a different place inside my brain. It's more like waking up from a dream. The moment you wake up, you remember a good seventy to eighty percent of the dream, but as the day goes on, you remember less and less of it until by lunchtime you just know that you'd had a dream and there may or may not have been a giant banana wielding a ray-gun in it. Unless that was in a different dream.

My late wife, Carolyn, in the days before she died, was hurt when the Creature pushed her aside, mistaking her for an enemy. I have never forgiven myself, or him, for that. Whenever he comes out, I am terrified someone has been hurt, badly injured, or worse as a result of that uncontrolled rage of his. Of mine. He is, after all, merely a by-product of my rage, my anger, my fear. I need validation, I need reassurance that the only things that are damaged are inanimate. Chairs and tables can be mended or replaced easily enough – people, not so much.

"David?"

Oh no. Someone has seen me. Someone who knows me. My stomach churns and my body becomes momentarily frozen. A hundred questions race through my mind. How much of my transformation did they see? Enough to figure out my secret? Enough for me to convince them that I was mugged and left in this alleyway, or some other lie that I have become adept at telling in order to protect myself? Where can I go next? How many fresh starts can one man make? What if they know who I am? What if I end up a governmental lab rat, a science experiment for a bunch of sweaty-palmed physicists whose MIT degrees still have wet ink on them?

I have to run, but I can't stand. I need an escape but I can't move my arms. My body may be almost immobile, but my brain is running on overdrive. The fear is draining the little semblance of energy I have left right now.

I can't speak yet. I try, but all that comes out are unintelligible mumbles. I hold my head in my hands. I'm not sure if this action helps keep it attached to my neck, but at the moment I don't trust my neck to hold my head up unaided. I am spent; mentally, physically and emotionally. The Creature may be seven and a half feet tall and built like an Adonis with superhuman strength, but I am not. The process of my entire cellular structure expanding and contracting at such a rapid rate is painful enough. Added to the fact that during his rages, he can lift things that ordinarily weigh two or three of me and throw them around like discarded toys means that I constantly have aches in places I didn't know could even ache until he came along. My earlobes, my fingertips, my forehead, my nose, my arms, my legs – everywhere hurts, as though gravity is punishing me for gaining and losing a hundred pounds in a matter of moments.

"Are you all right?"

I still don't reply. Partly because I can't, partly because I don't know what to say. As my eyes finally start to focus on the person in front of me, my brain frantically starts trying to come up with a reasonable explanation as to how I've ended up semi-naked in a back alley – preferably an explanation that won't get me arrested.

"David, it's me. It's Emma. Are you all right?" she asks. I don't move, and she comes to sit beside me on the step. She squeezes my shoulder.

"Me?" I finally say. "You needed help."

"I'm fine. Those guys ran like hell when the green guy came in!" she says, giggling at the memory of their terrified faces. I don't smile in return. I feel sick. My adrenaline levels are now depleted and I feel the cold New York winter air begin its assault on my bare skin. "Say, you must be freezing!" she says, wrapping her arm around my shoulders. It doesn't help much, but it's the first hug I've had in a long time.

"I'm glad," I say to her. "I'm glad you're okay." I want to crawl into bed and sleep for a hundred years. I'm not even sure where my bed is in relation to the stone steps Emma and I are sitting on.

"David?" she says, her tone quiet and serious. I try to focus on her, my eyelids heavy with exhaustion. "Thank you for saving me." I swallow hard and open my mouth to refute her claim but she takes hold of both of my hands and squeezes them tightly before continuing. "I saw you. I saw... the green man. I saw you. You're him. I know. I know who you are."

"You know?" I ask, too tired and sore for my brain to invent a lie. She nods.

"It's okay, you don't have to be afraid," she tells me, stroking my arm gently. Her voice is soothing and for a moment I even let myself believe her words. "You poor man. I'm so sorry."

She doesn't know what she's apologising for, and neither do I. Is she sorry for the secret I have to keep? For the people I've lost? For the lives I've had to leave behind since the Creature came into my life? For the career that died when he first breathed life? For the endless lonely nights and uncertain days I'd suffered? For the endless lonely nights and uncertain days that lay before me? For the fear constantly inside of me, wondering when he will next make an appearance? The anxiety after he has left, wondering what havoc he has wreaked onto an unsuspecting public? For all of it? For the fact she doesn't know how it feels to spectacularly lose the battle with the darkness inside? For not being able to help, because it makes her feel every bit as helpless as I am right now?

I remain hunched on the step, but my head drops down until it rests on Emma's shoulder. She tightens her grip around my shoulder. I squeeze her hand as tightly as I can and, for the first time in what feels like forever, I cry like a child.

Tomorrow, I will recover, I will get up, I will move on. I have to. Today, the darkness is too much for me to deal with alone.

THE END