Bruce walked out of the shawarma shop, his food in a bag. He enjoyed shawarma immensely, not because of its taste, and it was delicious, but because of what it represented. Friends, camaraderie, home. Bruce began walking back to his blue 2001 Toyota Prius. It was his first brand new car and he loved it. It was a bit worse for wear, but it was working like a charm. He sighed. I guess I am a bit old and broken down like her. We've both been through a lot.Bruce smiled at the ground, opening the door. He leaned over and deposited the food gently on the passenger seat. He clambered into the driver's seat and sat there for a moment, taking in the mouth watering smell of the shawarma. A hard lump formed in his throat as he viewed a father and son across the street. "You are a monster, you worthless bastard" His father's words echoed in his head. Even his own father despised him. It was something that Bruce had been struggling with for a long time. Am…am I a monster? What exactly constitutes a human?Bruce looked down. Captain America is considered human. All I wanted was to be super, like you Steve. And now…I guess I am.He laughed bitterly.
Bruce turned on the car and drove away. He couldn't live in New York, not after what happened with the Avengers. He gripped the steering wheel harder. People saw his transformation into the Other Guy. They feared him, hated him, glared at him and kept their distance. After all I did, saving them, this is the thanks I get. A monster in necessity. Bruce started to go numb and pulled over. Tears of helpless rage sprang to his eyes, he had no way to express his anger…not without an incident. Logic forced his emotions, telling him the harsh truth, that he must exercise self-control, that he must protect himself and others. Bruce shoved his emotions down deep inside; to be dealt with later, most likely never. He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Closing his eyes, he focused on getting home. Bruce opened them back up and drove back onto the main road. A few minutes later, he arrived home. The small cottage-style house, the last house on a dead end street greeted him. Exiting the car, he walked to the front door and opened it, shawarma forgotten. Home Sweet Home