Just one week had passed. Just seven days. One hundred and sixty eight hours. Every time the clock ticked, a small part of Bruce crumbled and fell.
He wanted to talk to Tony, needed to talk to Tony, but every time he got out his phone, to send a message or to dial the only number programmed into the phonebook, his thumb refused to press the button. If Tony wanted to hear him out, Bruce thought, he would have called.
Bruce's calm and collected façade had slipped momentarily, and the first week of the rest of his life had passed.