The excursions happened on a Wednesday, every week, and from what Bruce could tell lasted between three and four hours – weather depending. There was no announcement, no information passed between fellow teammates, there was no 'I'm going out' or 'See you in a bit.' There was only the communal knowledge that a member of their team was missing.
Steve has been the first to notice the drawn-out absences, the long hours once a week when the blond managed to sneak out of whatever activity happening at the time and disappear. Times varied, but the day never changed. It was an off-hand comment to Tony that sparked the quiet discussions between the group, the knowledge that one of their own was sneaking off practically undetected was juicy gossip in a world where their lives had wormed into some deformed creature of unity.
At best a family. And right now they were all playing the part of concerned members quite well. Even with all the assurances posed by the introverted scientist – "Maybe he just wants to be alone?" – to the outlandish statements by the Asgardian god – "Perhaps he will return with a large beast he slew with his own hands for supper." But, in all honesty no one was truly concerned until the day Natasha caught on.
"What do you mean he goes somewhere without mentioning it to anyone?" Memories of double agents, mistrust and a pact they had swore in a damp motel room in Budapest.
It was a Wednesday, the three-hour mark was approaching quickly and the gang had gathered around the large dining table for the weekly tradition of Steve and Bruce's kitchen adventure. An event posed by the missing attendee when the community pantry began to get dangerously low on top ramen and sugar cereal. The empty chair stood out like a sore thumb, only abandoned when one, or both, of the resident spies were deployed somewhere else for a short time.
But never when they were all home. Safe.
"I never expected him to miss a group dinner." It was Steve to bring up the uncomfortable subject, Bruce shifting in his seat as he took another slow glance at the stained wooden chair beside him – as if peering into the space would serve as a beacon guiding the lost Avenger home.
"Well, we should probably start before it gets cold and make sure we save Legolas only a small amount." Silver spoon of the resident billionaire already partially submerged in the casserole dish stuffed to the brim with elbow noodles and thick, goopy cheese. Hesitant murmurs of agreement halted only when the faint sound of an interior door opening and the unusual squish of wet sneakers across hardwood floors indicated the arrival of their missing piece. "No need, I'm back."
It was like observing a ghost for the first time, unsure if what they were seeing was actually there and not the formulated creation of worried friends. A tense moment of silence before the damp man, with hair dripping well formed drops of rainwater from limp strands of hair, broke the silence. "I'm not going to melt into a puddle, it's storming outside. All the cabs were taken so I had to walk home." Sorry I am late.
Slipping easily into the saved chair a look was passed between him and the fellow agent, one of the glances that left the rest of the group confused but them on better footing. A slight shift of fingers at the edge of mismatched plates unnoticed by the distracted tablemates as spoons dug into the baking dish and generous helpings were piled onto dishes. All talk of the archer's disappearance went out the window, with the conversation turning to the scientific discoveries of the combined efforts of Banner and Stark.
A week later and this time the former fugitive was ready, resident A.I. monitoring his target until morning passed into late afternoon and the resounding British accent broke through the silence of the loaned lab. "Doctor Banner, Agent Barton is about to depart." It was all the curly hair scientist needed, pushing aside complex and important work with one hand while the other wrapped around the well-worn jacket hung over the back of his chair. "Thank you, JARVIS."
Getting out of the building was easy and once the two men were out on the bustling streets of New York it was nothing for Bruce to fall back into old habits and blend within the mass of people. The humor was not lost on him as worn shoes crossed slick roads and trudged through the countless orange and red leaves that had made their final resting place on the well-walked sidewalks leading toward what Bruce could only assume was their final destination. The former prey now after the same organization he had been running from – along with the countless others after his head.
They were only a couple minutes into the impromptu adventure when the imposing golden façade of the city's major terminal arrived in view, clustered statues poised above the Roman numeral clock that the city seemed to ignore. Minutes translated to seconds and seconds moved faster than the blink of the eye in the city that never slept.
Bruce frowned, the collection of early commuters a threat to his currently successful tail. A momentary pause, contemplating if it was worth the fallout if his teammate found out about the normal passive and uninterested scientist suddenly intrigued by personal details. What if the agent was merely escaping the insanity that was the Avengers Towers, certainly the others could understand the need to be utterly and completely alone.
None of them were social butterflies, even among themselves.
Surging forward through the turbulent waves of pressed suits and overflowing briefcases the radiated scientist fell back in line with his target, movements precise in their imitation as tickets were purchased, security was breezed through and soaked feet awkwardly shifted from heel to toe as baseball cap shifted over dark eyes and long fingers adjusted the damp, oversized hoodie he had taken refuge in. The familiar sight of dishwater blond hair stuck out like a sore thumb among the protected hairstyles of the citizens of New York, winter was coming and it was evident by the countless waterproof boots and dangling umbrellas that seemed a standard accessory – a detail both men obviously were unaware of when leaving the Tower this afternoon.
It was the robotic voice, barely understandable by natives, which pulled the brunette from his thoughts and drew him closer to the edge of the platform and into the open doors of the waiting underground train. The squish of bodies, the shifting of possessions and the gentle bump of shoulders as human beings desperately tried to maintain personal space while simultaneously making room for more should have been unnerving to the man that rarely ventured out into the world and on any other day there would have been a jump in pulse, a quickening of breath as a part of him became aware of the claustrophobia that could threaten his successful streak – the one where he had managed to keep the monster inside of him at bay unless needed for good.
All of these things should have happened but concern and determination outweighed phobia and Bruce allowed the rocking motion of the train and the quiet murmur of multiple conversations to calm him – steady him on his quest.
Station after station passed with no departure before another indistinct mumble of the robotic voice flooded the metal car, gaze shifting out the corner of his eye as he caught sight of his mark to note the shifting of feet and the tension of shoulders in preparation to make a quick escape before doors closed shut and they were whisked off to some unknown destination. The sea of people had thinned dramatically with the change of station and Bruce was made to employ what little surveillance tactics he had picked up to avoid being spotted in an area with little cover. Not that there was much to worry about – Clint would hardly expect the quiet, never-leaves-his-lab, researcher to ever venture this far into the city without the others. Without an impending threat upon the city they now all called home.
Stairs led upwards, bringing them from the bowels of the city onto the surface where dark storm clouds revealed a world no brighter than that in the tunnels that snaked beneath the city. Where the hell are we? Unfamiliar streets beckoned him further with the quick steps of the agent with the 50-foot lead, turning down side streets and back alleys until all forward momentum stopped just outside a hole-in-the-wall pizza shop that looked as if its last customer had arrived and departed ten years ago.
Broad shoulder pressed against uneven brickwork of the darkening alley, a distant flash of light and subsequent roll of thunder was all Bruce needed to know that a hot shower and hotter cup of tea would signal the end of the adventure. Ten minutes ticked slowly on by with no sign of the other and only the scattering raindrops to indicate the passing of time. There was a brief moment of concern, a nagging at the back of his mind that said his friend would not be returning to the streets anytime soon and there was no use in remaining outside if his research ended here – outside a local pizza place north-west of Central Park.
Just give up Banner, maybe he's on a date. Or maybe he just finds the need to travel this far for a good slice of pizza. Stop worrying. Stop intruding.
Feet were turning in the direction they had arrived from when the faint jingle of a bell pulled dark gaze back just in time to catch sight of the archer moving down an opposite street carrying a large pizza. A small sigh escaping parted lips as relief washed over the persistent housemate. Once again they were back on the pursuit, streets crossed one right after the other, streets bustling and alight with the glow of street lamps, headlights and traffic signals in the ever-darkening environment.
The pace had picked up, unaccustomed to strenuous exercise the older man could feel weary legs tremble at the thought of any more mad dashes across lanes of traffic – heart rate already elevated due to a few near misses as he timed his crossings with the flashing red hand. Lungs burned against the crisp fall air that began to reveal the first signs of winter in the quickly dropping temperatures. Tan hands were shoved into deep pockets, the stolen sweatshirt of the Captain retaining body heat necessary to keep up his pursuit without drawing attention by being obtrusive in color.
Water-logged feet sloshed against damp sidewalks before another dart across the street nearly ended with a collision with a bike commuter and ended with a quick flurry of apologies before Bruce turned to face the rod-iron fence and stone face of one of New York's oldest churches. And the only remaining cemetery still in use.
Oh.
Lowered gaze tracked the solitary figure along the path, pizza box giving him away along empty pedestrian roads that snaked through the grounds dotted with headstones and markers that honored those who had long, and not so long ago, passed from this world. It felt like an intrusion, his first step onto the property hesitant before the thought that he had come this far he needed to know what he already suspected.
Had not Natasha mentioned something about this place? Did not Tony spend a small fortune in the construction of a headstone to honor their fallen inspiration? Pushing forward, Bruce was aware of the turmoil swirling and darkening within himself, unprepared to face the reminder of the man his loss of control had inevitably killed.
But months had passed and even Bruce needed to face his mistakes at some point – finding no reason to abandon his quest here, on this rare grassy space reserved for preserving life after death. Distance was maintained, steps slowing to a shuffle as both men neared the overstated reminder of their handler – the man who had rallied them and in the end knitted the final pieces of the makeshift family together.
He remained on the outskirts, leaning heavily against a tree yards away from the slowly unfolding scene before him. Lashes fluttering shut as he guilty took in the gentle brush of calloused fingertips against smooth stone, the knees of the off-duty assassin sinking to meet the marble slab laid overtop recently overturned soil before a well-toned back was pressed flush against the pillar that served to represent what was left of Agent Phil Coulson.
Bruce was intruding, warning bells were signaling within his mind and yet he couldn't tear himself away from the scene, heart tightening as the other man's fingers fumbled with the lid of the cardboard box before the obvious sight of steam rose up from the freshly made dish.
The oncoming storm decided to not to postpone its arrival, darkened skies crackling with electricity before the random plinks of raindrops on the old roof were slowly drowned out by a wall of water – neither man deterred by Mother Nature's best. Not when Barton had pizza to consume and Bruce had an apology to make.
Even from here he could see the slight tremble in the younger man's fingers, the heat of the pizza no match for the drop in temperature that came with the coming winter and retreating summer. A few more minutes and blond hair was plastered to an uncovered head while slow bites were taken of the meal-for-one.
The scientist's mind was made up, steeling himself to leave the protection of the trees and intrude on the silent meeting with the excuse of the agent's physical health his only protection when a flash of red and a circular cut of dry space made up of black and white indicated the presence of another. Even from his distance there was no mistaking the slender form and distinct red hair that made up the profile of Natasha – the other person that suffered at the hands of Loki.
That directly suffered at the hands of his alter ego.
The mission was aborted, retreating back into the shadows where he hid he watched the woman move gracefully across the soggy grass, a hand lifting with a slight wiggle of fingers that caught the sharp gaze of their long distance weapon. A simple hello, a standard greeting in any language but when the remaining slice of the blonde's pizza was replaced in the hardly touched box and dark fingers lifted Bruce was confidant that the confused look on his face would have been replicated on all of the teams faces had they witnessed the quick flurry of hands that drew the other spy closer to the one-man pow-wow.
Her response in the same manner of communication Clint had defaulted to without second thought.
Their conversation was easy, Natasha dropping to a elevated position above the damp ground as she held the umbrella above both their heads, providing a dry space for pizza and sign language to be exchanged with interspersed laughter and solemn looks at the memorial that had brought them both to this place. Greasy fingers moving quickly in the darkening sky before long and slender digits of the Black Widow swiped across an offered napkin and lifted to trace the outline of her partner's face, lingering at the shell of his ear before a shake of a head tossed thick waves of hair from side to side. Through the gentle pitter-patter of raindrops the first notes of verbal communication punched through the silence and into the makeshift shelter their stalker had created for himself.
"Of course, Clint. I never forgot our Deaf-pizza nights."
Words spoken clear, precise, their faces close together in a way Bruce understood to facilitate the ease of lip-reading in dark environments. In a manner that would allow Clint, their archer and fellow Avenger, the ability to understand the words he could no longer hear.