Bruce simply just didn't belong in New York anymore. Maybe he never belonged in the first place -- no, no, he definitely didn't. If Arkham had never happened, things between himself and Tony would have worked out this way regardless. Tony has Pepper, and Bruce has no business being somewhere where he's recognized. It isn't that he thinks he should drop out of society completely. These places he picks to relocate, they're not exactly the least populated areas he can find. They're teeming with life, almost rotting with it in some areas, blooming with it in others, and isn't that the divide he straddles? Just a little too much life, just enough to be destructive.
No, Bruce just doesn't want to matter to anyone. It's simpler that way. Cleaner. The freedom that comes from running away is more than just shaking off the government, or dodging assholish soldiers looking for a grudge match. It's about anonymity; it's about walking into a room and if there are eyes on him, it's because he's the American doctor, or that naked man who'd come begging -- but even then, that's easily enough forgotten. He'll be their doctor; he'll come into their homes and treat their wounds and not ask for much in return -- money more often than not, but food too, or clothes, or sometimes a place to stay, just for the night.
The tower, with Tony, is the picture of extravagance. Of excess. Of comfort and luxury. Bruce is never comfortable there. Walking down the street in his shoes that are just a little too small, his shirt just a little too big, his pants just a little too scratchy, his stomach just a little too empty -- this is better. This is far more comfortable. This is Bruce living at rock bottom, and where is there to go from here but up? It's the only way a pessimist can find any optimism.
So sure, Bruce is content in a way out here. He's cut ties; he's doing good in the world; he's scraping by and no one looks at him like a time bomb waiting to go off. No one looks at him like Tony did either, or Betty. But Betty's gone and Tony, his Tony? Well, who knows. He's content on his own; he prefers not mattering, because then it's easier for people not to matter to him. It's when they matter that it hurts.
He thinks about them all every day, in no particular order, some days one more than the other. Phil and Clint, Loki and Kenzi -- god... They hurt. The dreams he hates are the one twisted in green, but lately the more he dreams of some rundown university barely keeping itself together, he almost wishes for the warped ghosts of the Hulk's memories.
He's letting himself feel the pain of their loss -- part of his heightened understanding of his relationship with pain, you need to let a little in if you want to get over it, but really Bruce is a masochist, a self-punisher -- as he heads for home, more distracted than he should be, but not distracted enough not to notice the sounds of a fight in the home he's set up here. He almost turns around and just runs, leaving behind whoever decided to break in, but then he hesitates because...
He isn't home. Who are they fighting?
He creeps in as quietly as he can, shrinking in on himself and making himself as invisible as possible. He smells the blood but doesn't register it at first, not until he sees it, and the crumpled bodies, and there, two moving --
One moving.
Clint Barton just killed a man by twisting his head around, using his thighs, and Bruce's apartment is full of dead people, and Bruce isn't even sure if he's supposed to be next.
But he doesn't think so. He hates SHIELD with all his available passion -- which is a lot -- but Clint? Clint still feels like an ally. And Bruce isn't an optimist but he thinks these people are dead because Clint was keeping them away from Bruce.
"Clint?" he asks, uncertain, taking a half-step closer before he stops. "Are there any more?"
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No, Bruce just doesn't want to matter to anyone. It's simpler that way. Cleaner. The freedom that comes from running away is more than just shaking off the government, or dodging assholish soldiers looking for a grudge match. It's about anonymity; it's about walking into a room and if there are eyes on him, it's because he's the American doctor, or that naked man who'd come begging -- but even then, that's easily enough forgotten. He'll be their doctor; he'll come into their homes and treat their wounds and not ask for much in return -- money more often than not, but food too, or clothes, or sometimes a place to stay, just for the night.
The tower, with Tony, is the picture of extravagance. Of excess. Of comfort and luxury. Bruce is never comfortable there. Walking down the street in his shoes that are just a little too small, his shirt just a little too big, his pants just a little too scratchy, his stomach just a little too empty -- this is better. This is far more comfortable. This is Bruce living at rock bottom, and where is there to go from here but up? It's the only way a pessimist can find any optimism.
So sure, Bruce is content in a way out here. He's cut ties; he's doing good in the world; he's scraping by and no one looks at him like a time bomb waiting to go off. No one looks at him like Tony did either, or Betty. But Betty's gone and Tony, his Tony? Well, who knows. He's content on his own; he prefers not mattering, because then it's easier for people not to matter to him. It's when they matter that it hurts.
He thinks about them all every day, in no particular order, some days one more than the other. Phil and Clint, Loki and Kenzi -- god... They hurt. The dreams he hates are the one twisted in green, but lately the more he dreams of some rundown university barely keeping itself together, he almost wishes for the warped ghosts of the Hulk's memories.
He's letting himself feel the pain of their loss -- part of his heightened understanding of his relationship with pain, you need to let a little in if you want to get over it, but really Bruce is a masochist, a self-punisher -- as he heads for home, more distracted than he should be, but not distracted enough not to notice the sounds of a fight in the home he's set up here. He almost turns around and just runs, leaving behind whoever decided to break in, but then he hesitates because...
He isn't home. Who are they fighting?
He creeps in as quietly as he can, shrinking in on himself and making himself as invisible as possible. He smells the blood but doesn't register it at first, not until he sees it, and the crumpled bodies, and there, two moving --
One moving.
Clint Barton just killed a man by twisting his head around, using his thighs, and Bruce's apartment is full of dead people, and Bruce isn't even sure if he's supposed to be next.
But he doesn't think so. He hates SHIELD with all his available passion -- which is a lot -- but Clint? Clint still feels like an ally. And Bruce isn't an optimist but he thinks these people are dead because Clint was keeping them away from Bruce.
"Clint?" he asks, uncertain, taking a half-step closer before he stops. "Are there any more?"