The grass felt better between his toes the more he was standing on it, and the nightmares of his memories and guilt started to alleviate somewhat. Bruce wondered whether he should talk to Steve about it, gauge what his friend was going through as well. If someone else was taking it just as shittily as he was, then he wasn’t a total headcase and could man up for his wife and son. Grass between his toes was a good start; he was grounded, in the moment, alive. He owed them all so much. All Thor had lost… family, people, home. Bruce had got off easy.
The sweat on his clammy skin had dried down a little until he just felt exhausted and dirty, regretful of leaving Darcy just a note. He’d tried to do the right thing in his panic-stricken mind but had probably fucked it up all the more, right? Maybe if he got home quickly, he could slip back into bed and just hope that she wouldn’t-
That voice. The accent, thick behind his back, almost syrupy and soft. The guilt piled back onto his shoulders in an instant.
“Call me Bruce, Wanda,” he replied, turning his head a little to look at her. It hurt. “Always Dr Banner, huh?”
He’d seen her crumble into dust at the body of the man she loved. But she was here, too, pink-cheeked and alone as he felt. It could have been worse, he guessed. If this was Hell, the Devil was doing a great job at torture. Making it seem good, until he realised what he’d done.