There he was.

Tony landed in the middle of a large field, staring at the man who sat cross-legged several yards away. The billionaire took off the helmet of his Iron Man suit, carrying it under his arm. He walked forward towards the figure with his head in his hands.

"It wasn't your fault."

There was no reply. Tony leaned over and put an armored hand on his friend's shoulder. "Hey. I know about these things. They happen. No one's mad at you."

"Except the people who watched their grandfather being crushed by a Toyota that was flying through the air."

"Bruce-"

"And the nine-year-old whose mother is in a coma."

"That's-"

"And the man whose pregnant wife and unborn child fell out of a building."

Tony was trying very hard to keep calm. He sat down next to Bruce, who had not moved an inch, his legs crossed, his head bowed and resting in his shaking hands. Streaks of blood covered several parts of his body, though Tony knew that some of it wasn't his.

The billionaire and the physicist sat there, in the middle of a field somewhere in New York, the billionaire wearing a red and gold metal suit, the physicist wearing only a pair of torn purple pants.

Tony put his arm around Bruce, wanting to say something, but his friend cried,"AH! Tony, get off! It hurts!" Bruce finally looked up. His hair was wild (Tony thought he saw several gray hairs that hadn't been there before), his eyes were distant, endless tortures wracking his mind.

Tony saw Bruce's body shaking. "It hurts?"

"Every time."

Tony was silent. So was Bruce. They continued to sit together. It got dark. Bruce's posture slumped from exhaustion. His friend let him lean on his less-than-comfortable shoulder, though it's the though that counts, Tony supposed.

Bruce was soon asleep. Tony placed his mask back on, picked up his friend, and began to fly back home.

Sometimes silence was best.