So maybe in other places, a shirtless scratched up panicky looking guy who may or may not be recognized as an Avenger might be cause for concern. This being New York City, however, there's stranger shit on about every street corner. Some people look, of course, but if there's more than that, he doesn't take notice. His head is on fire. The hamster's back on its wheel. Everything is going wrong and imploding and fucked up and he doesn't know what to do about it.

He barely even comes to realize he's still shirtless when he gets about halfway around the block. At least he's still got pants. He stops, breathing hard, and digs out his phone. But he doesn't know who to call. Laura? And say what? His therapist? And say what?

The air helps his head to clear, even if it makes what happened not at all any clearer. He's less frantic when he makes the rest of the trip around the block, hands shoved in his pockets, just Some Shirtless Dude Taking A Walk, nothing anyone should notice. And while he hates...going back, hates the idea that maybe he's crawling back, even if he doesn't apologize, he does anyway. Right back to Loki's door. Where he stands, shifting from foot to foot for a minute, two minutes, three. And knocks quietly, head resting on the wood.