Work Text:
The worst thing is the quiet.
New York City should be loud. People should be talking, yelling, laughing; music should be flaring around corners and up alleyways. Taxi drivers should argue. High heels should clack on pavement. The city itself should hum, too, with the constant heartbeat of a purely electronic organism. Something should always be awake in a city, alive, extant.
Something is alive, Bruce reminds himself, out the window. Or close to it, anyway.
It’s almost sunset, when they’ll wake.
The thought rattles inside his brain. He wishes he could sleep. He can’t even remember how long he’s been up for--thirty hours? Fifty?--but there’s work to be done, so much work, and no time for sleep. He’ll have coffee again instead.
He finds Steve sitting out on the balcony, his sketchbook abandoned beside him. The lines on his face are deeper than they were months ago. Bruce sits down next to him. They watch the sunset highlight the standing skyscrapers in gold for a while without speaking.
“Where’s Tony?” he asks finally. His voice is dry, unused.
Steve shrugs. “Supply run,” he says. His eyes fall shut, like the reply is too heavy to stand.
“And Thor?”
Another shrug. “Asgard, I think. Asking his dad for help again.”
“Ah.” Bruce bites his lip, but forces himself to ask. “Any word from Hill or Fury?”
Steve bows his head. That’s answer enough.
Down below, he can hear the rustling as they wake. Hawkeye and Black Widow are on guard duty tonight. An arrow whistles in the twilight, then more.
“We never should have done it,” Steve says. His voice is worn right through. “We should have left well enough alone. Trying to bring him back... ”
The words hang in the air between them.
“I know,” Bruce says.