[In the end, it's all the people insisting he has the right to stay that drive him away, and he can't say why. He can't say why when Tony would drape an arm around his shoulders and show him around the labs, that Bruce could never stop squirming from some deeply-felt level of unease. It never went away, no matter how many dinners or drinks, no matter how long he sat and watched for the other guy to disappear from their eyes. And he did, for the most part, the most he can ask for.
When he still woke up with, sick with that creeping sense of wrongness, he just gave up. He just decided that maybe he doesn't really fit in anywhere anymore. Maybe he doesn't belong anywhere.
So he disappeared, or as best he could. He still looks over his shoulder now, dread in his stomach, in case he might see someone he recognizes, in case he might see a friendly face out of a sea of strangers. It's the sea of strangers he clings to. Surrounded by so much humanity -- rich humanity, too; all the smells and the sounds and the colors, so much that he aches with it, so much that it fills him up from the inside -- he can pretend like maybe he's human, too.
He likes the night because it's easier to hide; maybe he belongs to that, if nothing else. He takes the long way home, going slow, hands in his pockets, and his mind is empty. There's a peace here, between the clusters of chattering people, between the men on bikes and the clattering seats.
He stops short, body going still.
The familiar face he keeps waiting to sneak up on him from behind surprises him. It greets him head-on, or at least he thinks, until the light shifts and what he thought was Loki is now a woman, but still, he can't make his feet move, uncertainty stopping him.]
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When he still woke up with, sick with that creeping sense of wrongness, he just gave up. He just decided that maybe he doesn't really fit in anywhere anymore. Maybe he doesn't belong anywhere.
So he disappeared, or as best he could. He still looks over his shoulder now, dread in his stomach, in case he might see someone he recognizes, in case he might see a friendly face out of a sea of strangers. It's the sea of strangers he clings to. Surrounded by so much humanity -- rich humanity, too; all the smells and the sounds and the colors, so much that he aches with it, so much that it fills him up from the inside -- he can pretend like maybe he's human, too.
He likes the night because it's easier to hide; maybe he belongs to that, if nothing else. He takes the long way home, going slow, hands in his pockets, and his mind is empty. There's a peace here, between the clusters of chattering people, between the men on bikes and the clattering seats.
He stops short, body going still.
The familiar face he keeps waiting to sneak up on him from behind surprises him. It greets him head-on, or at least he thinks, until the light shifts and what he thought was Loki is now a woman, but still, he can't make his feet move, uncertainty stopping him.]