The only thing I have left to write is the epilogue...and I've developed a writer's block. Ug. I'll get it...sometime. I very much want to get this done before school begins (freshmen years of college, so, so nervous!). The only thing preventing that is my writer's block, many friends suddenly deciding since I'm moving in 14 days they want to chill with me, and Downton Abbey.

Thank you all for the support! The reviews and follows and favorites have kept my inbox full. Thank you so much. And please, don't hesitate to ask questions, critique, etc.

-XXXX-

I end up selecting a champagne-coloured number with a black lace overlay at the waist. It's got triangular flat straps, a sweet-heart neckline, and pairs nicely with the velvet-lined wrap I usually took to the opera, and my stiletto pumps. Since being relocated to the Big Apple, my wardrobe has moved to a new, far more expensive, plane. I cannot say I mind in the least.

Bruce, in a charcoal sports coat and slacks, wearing a dusky purple shirt that nicely sets off his darken tones, spends the evening with me on his arm, appearing vaguely amused with his surroundings, whispering in my ear as the greats of SHIELD's sciences pass. There is the man who fused elements to make a new kind of metal, the woman who has made massive breaks in curing AIDs, then the fellow who has a dripping sort of nose who spends much of his time and money on radium, the astrophysicist in charge of the Asgardian communications and blackhole exploration (partner, he murmurs, to the Jane Foster). We pass a stout Asian woman with iron hair who is chatting with a sallow-faced gentleman. Bruce says they're nuclear physicists, the people who are still cleaning up the radiation in Japan. One mustashed red-head with flaming cheeks greets Dr Banner warmly, then moves to the bar. He, my partner whispers, single-handedly built an energy plant in the Ukraine that has yet to be unveiled, but rivals Stark Tower on clean energy production. According to Bruce, he is not a person Tony particularly admires.

Most people pass us by – even though this is the science community, people who understand and sympathize with Bruce's condition, they still give him a rather wide berth. Tony, the only other person who might see fit to hang around us, is still in Dubi for the week at some conference for clean energy architects. Pepper was planning on attending in his stead, but was held up by a small crisis in the desert – her boyfriend was offending one too many local sheiks.

My date is one hundred per cent gentleman. He fetches me drinks, pulls out chairs, opens doors, provides me with polite and charmingly shy conversation. While the buzz around the table in regards to the discovery of a new breed of plankton and mircobots is dull, I listen with half an ear as Bruce puts in his two cents. His opinion is regarded well enough.

It's not the most fun I have ever had, but the experience proves pleasant enough. And Bruce seems glad to have me here.

The speeches are even worse than the tabletalk, but I endure them with something like a smile. Beside me, the doctor shifts uncomfortably when his name is announced and applause rings throughout the room. With a slight shake of the head, I ask him when he sits why he did not tell me he was receiving an award.

He shrugs. "It's no big deal. I mean," he amends quickly. "An honor. But nothing of fawn over."

"Bruce," I say, a little playful, but more so scolding softly. "It's kinda a big deal. Congratulations. First year for SHIELD and you're already getting recognition."

"Well," he replies shyly. "It's probably just the standard."

Convincing him how great he is can be a task. The scientist ducks his head, eyes on the table.

For that moment, in Bruce's shyness and sweet nature, in his display of downplaying his achievements, I am struck: opposites. Day and night. Simply put, this man is nothing like Loki. My breath slows with the thought, and I choke a little in the back of my throat. At Bruce's look, though, I force another sweet smile, pride blossoming on my lips.

Yet my mind howls. Of course. Bruce, light where Loki has a dark edge. Compassionate where my god would sneer or sulk. A softer soul, where the other's is hardened. Overcoming, when my love uses his loathing to stem his fury, to build his motivations for revenge. A flame, consuming against Bruce's solid storm. The difference has never been more clear.

I feel myself swallow back bile at the thought. I like Bruce. I have nothing against him in the least; he's always been kind to me. But even so – I cannot use him to placate my loneliness. That just isn't fair. Not fair to me, and certainly not fair to him.

Perhaps someday in the future….

We sit through the rest of the meal in companionable silence, listening to the voices of others around us. Bruce looks to me, raising his eye brows when we both hear someone say something unintentionally funny. As the night wears on (and therefore the booze consumption as well), I find myself giggling more and more (though that isn't directly an effect of the alcohol on me – I've sipped the untainted lemonade all night), and Bruce smile growing.

There is another round of speeches. For the life of me, I can't understand why these were not placed at the start of the dinner, pre-booze, for while the audience consists of responsible members of the science community, even they cannot pay attention while completely hammered. And some of them totally are. Besides that, a lot of people have to go to the bathroom now. Such as myself.

In the middle of a dreary oration regarding carbon half-life, or something like that, I lean over to Bruce.

"Listen, I am really sorry, but I've got to make an exit for the ladies room. Be right back, okay?"

Bruce, whose eyes have been glued to this German guy, allows his gaze to flicker over brief. "Yeah. I'll be right here."

This is totally Bruce's football.

I stand, smoothing out the bodice and skit of my dress before wading through the tables to exit the ballroom. Once out, I wander the length of carpeted hall and crystal wall sconces before I find the tell-tale plastic sign, Braille included at the bottom. I slip inside, relieved. Then, disappointed because there is a beastly line. About eight women stand, each wearing an expression of indifference, annoyance, or desperation. I park myself in the back to wait. All of these women appear to know one another – wives of SHIELD scientists, or scientists themselves. I am the odd duck out. Worrying at the beading on my clutch, I listen to the chit-chat. The ladies are discussing their husband's work.

"Henry was so busy today, I was scared we weren't going to make it. They had another one of those storms near Maine," says one frosted blond. "And I'd already gotten my pedi, and had the dress pressed, besides the babysitter would probably quit then and there if I cancelled on her again."

Her mirror-mate interrupts the application of a buttery coral lipstick, flipping her long curtain of dark hair. "Was it one of those big cyclones that was hitting the Southwest plains last year? The kind Foster has been studying? Juan says since she's been gone Henry has been such a help to the department. Erik only has good things to say about him."

The name Foster strike me. Giant storms in the Southwest sounds right up her alley. I've heard the name dropped by Bruce, Thor, and even Loki. She was the one who found Thor in the middle of that tornado thing in New Mexico. The Rosen-Whatever Bridge. The line shifts forward, and I feel my heart climb into my throat. The women keep talking, but I am too absorbed in my own thought to properly listen, and steady myself against the tiled wall. Bridge. The Bifrost…it was that thing Loki described, a rainbow-bridge that could take the people of Asgard anywhere – including earth. And from the way I'd heard it described, it came in the form of a huge tornado. Just like in New Mexico. And now, apparently, Maine.

Thor?

"But no," I think, frowning. The line moves up again. I trail behind the women, my mind lost. "That can't be Thor. He always comes through closer to New York. On the ocean, maybe, or in Jersey."

So who would be coming through Maine?

My treacherous mind whispers things forbidden to me. "Loki Laufeyson?"

I scold myself. Not Loki. "Fool."

"They sent an entire SHIELD field-agent team up there," murmurs the dark-haired one, using one of those perfume-rollers on her tanner wrist. "Twenty men, Juan says, and the locals were pushed off the land. Even our scientists were allowed in only after the area had been cleared."

"Odd," says the blond, frowning. "That's not protocol –"

With that, I bolt.

Behind me, the bathroom door swings on its hinges, and I can hear the quiet uproar of women wonder just what the hell happened. I don't look back.

Bruce is still at our table, still engrossed in the German guy's speech. I nearly collide with the chair when I fly in to sit beside him. He blinks once, twice, looking down owlish at me. Confusion rises in his gaze. "Tati? You look hot – red cheeks, I mean," he revises quickly. "Like you've been running."

"Well," I say, breathless. "I kinda have been. A little, I mean. Listen, Bruce, I've gotta run. It's been great, really, I loved this, and seeing you and – and – something came up."

Dr Banner blinks again. Mildly surprised, he begins to rise. "Okay. Um, I'll go get our coats, then we can hail a cab –"

"No!" I say loudly. Several people look up, some of them glaring. I lower my voice, taking his hand and tugging him back down to his chair, explaining lowly, "You stay. This means a lot to you, and I'm sure it'll look bad if you go early. Please stay. You're clearly enjoying this –" I gesture to the German, still rambling. "—right? Besides, I am a big girl. I can call up a cab."

"Are you sure?" His dark brow furrow. "I feel bad, Tati, leaving you to get home by yourself. You're, what, fifty blocks away?"

I grin. "More like seventeen, but who's counting? I'll be fine, Bruce. Thank you so much for inviting me."

This pleases him. "At least let me walk you out."

I comply to this, then let him kiss me sweetly on the cheek before he disappears back into the elevator. Once I know I am out of sight – pesky glass elevator tubes are a common hindrance in nicer Manhattan hotels – I dart outside. The yellow cabs are aplenty, and in their abundance I waste little time hailing one down. The guy has a pretty strong Israeli dialect. It takes several tries before I fully understand him I tell him as quickly as I can my street address on the Upper West Side. In twenty minutes (thick traffic for this time of night) we're before my brownstone. I escape into the night, shoving the guy a twenty (or maybe two, I don't really check) before running up the step – in heels, no less – to dig around my clutch for the keys, then fling the door open, flying inside, to be greeted by –

Silence.

I stand in the darken foyer for several seconds, staring straight into the parlor. My mind had told me, sworn up and down, that I would return to a smirking Asgardian God sitting in his usual rose-coloured armchair, crystal stout glass of scotch (or maybe mead, or wine, or something boozy) resting in his open palm, disinterested gaze on the window until my return. He would be wearing his armor, and bearing his sword. He would smirk at my opened-mouth gaze, then rise slowly to sweep me into an embrace. Then berate me for finally installing a TV, moving in the cat, and putting up my O'Keeffe prints in place of his battle-scenes. And in turn, I'd smack him for leaving me alone for so long, then show him the glories of Netflix.

Yet, this is merely what my mind dared to dream. Not actuality. Not by a longshot.

There is a twitch in the darkness, on the couch. The yellow eyes of Win appear, blinking. He slinks off of the furniture to weave between my legs, curling around my ankles. My bare skin keenly feels the soft fur. I stoop to scratch him behind the ears, the curse as the dress impairs this. Winchester cries loudly in displeasure. Without a second though I simply plop down on the floor beside him, allowing the cat to sit in the lap of my $300 designer dress. And then and there, scratching my spoiled cat behind the ears in the middle of my living room, I burst into tears.

-XXX-

If you're a Captain America or Darcy Lewis fan I've got a short chaptered fictlet that I'm just about to wrap up. It's a little more wry that this piece, way shorter, just something sweet and simple. Checkit!

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