It’s unknown how long it takes for the news to reach Bruce. It could have been days. It could have been weeks. But it reaches him, eventually, all the same. And with it comes the memories that he’s tried, and failed, to forget hundreds of times throughout his life. They’re ingrained in his brain, sculpting him and haunting him. Even Hulk feels them. Hell, he figures Hulk is driven by them.
So when he hears the news it’s… a lot. Too much.
He nods slowly, casually, as if acknowledging something as simple as the weather. But his eyes are dull and unfocused and his voice won’t work and he takes his leave swiftly, without a word.
The thing is, he’d been expecting it. Of course he had. Because it was inevitable that time would take it’s due course. All things come to an end. It’s something he’s been waiting for. Hoping and dreading at the same time.
That being said, there had also been a small part of him afraid that Brian would never die.
Every day Bruce has to tell himself that Brian is gone from his life. He can’t get out of prison, he can’t find Bruce, he can’t infiltrate the Avengers security, he can’t get to him any more. Even with an incredibly intelligent, incredibly twisted mind at his disposal, he just can’t. Bruce is smarter. Hulk is stronger. They have nothing to fear.
Now all he has to tell himself is that he can’t come back from the dead.
Which is easier than expected. It’s surprisingly easy to convince himself to believe it.
So then why did he run away?
It’s been several days since he left home. He doesn’t know where he’s going and has nothing on him except for the clothes on his back and a few spare notes (of various currencies) that he keeps sewn into them for emergencies.
Except this is not an emergency. This is Bruce letting his emotions get the better of him. It’s like he’s feeling every negative and positive emotion one can possibly feel at once, the result being a disturbing neutral-ness, a lack of displaying any emotion at all. He just shuts down and goes for a walk. A long one.
Thor intercepts him in Pennsylvania, about three or four days into his none stop trek. Bruce remembers to feel bad that he didn’t tell him he was leaving.
“I was worried about you,” Thor says, looking at him earnestly from his place on the couch next to Bruce. They’re in the cheapest motel Bruce could find because Thor hadn’t brought any cash with him and Bruce’s stash had pretty much run dry.
Practically speaking, they should just go home.
“Sorry,” Bruce says, staring numbly at the wall.
He’d asked Thor for just one more day out here. He wants to ask for more. But it’s clear to both of them that it’d be impossible for him to carry on going as he is, so he doesn’t try it.
Thor is studying him carefully, which Bruce is aware of even without looking at him directly. It’s hard to look him in the eye right now. Much easier to stare at the water stains blemishing the paintwork. The stains don’t give Bruce the sudden urge to spill his guts to them.
“Bruce.”
Thor’s voice is so soft that Bruce can’t help but turn his head a fraction to take a glance at his expression. It’s earnest, as usual, but his brow is scrunched in a way that hints at his worry.
“I know what this is about. And… I want you to know that you don’t have to keep bottling it up.”
“I don’t —” He stops himself. It’d be a lie to say that’s not exactly what he does. What he’s doing. Bottling it up. Squashing it down. Repressing. But it’s not like he has a choice. He has a giant, temperamental monster inside of him that he has to almost constantly fight to control and he wouldn’t wish it to be unleashed on anyone else.
He feels his eyes grow a little warm and Thor takes note, lifting a hand to settle it on Bruce’s back in a comforting gesture.
“Go on, cry. If you need to.”
It’s almost as if Bruce’s body had been waiting for permission because it responds to Thor’s words almost instantly. He presses a hand to his eyes, feeling the wetness build up as his chest begins to tighten and heave in small, intermittent sobs.
“I’m not —” he swallows past the lump in his throat, even as the tears continue to spill down his cheeks — “I’m not… sad,” he gets out, shaking his head. “I’m not. Not for him… not for him, never...” There’s a slight venom in his tone, just for that one word.
There’s a shift of movement, and Bruce can tell that Thor nodded. It helps. He understands. Bruce would probably fall apart forever if Thor misunderstood him right now, because the truth is…
“I’m just so… fucking… relieved…” He continues between hitched breaths, voice thick with emotion.
Thor is silent while he gets it out, until eventually he shuffles a little closer and asks, “Can I hug you?”
Bruce’s mouth forms the word ‘yes’ but it gets stuck in his throat, caught by the gunky lump that has reformed. Instead he just nods, eyes still tightly screwed shut as he tilts his weight to the left and leans against Thor’s chest.
As the heavy weight of strong arms settle around him, he goes limp and finally starts sob out his relief in earnest, in the safety of Thor’s embrace.