Helpless

That other half of himself is ugly, he thinks- something animalistic, full of rage. He doesn't want anyone else to see it- he's not only ashamed of it but afraid of what it can do. His life revolves around the idea of control. Control is his most prized possession, after all. It's something that no one can take away from him; it's something he's fought hard for, fights hard for every day. Control is as much a part of Bruce as his own heartbeat- from the moment he wakes in the morning, to the time he finally, finally quiets his thoughts enough to fall asleep, his universe turns around this point. He drills himself in it longer and harder than any drill sergeant trains a soldier- every day, every waking minute, even when alone. He is unobtrusive, unerringly polite. So mild you forget him if you don't know the story of his life, know the noise that must run beneath the skin, the currents that surely coil under the still water. He controls his breathing, trains his mind to emptiness because he's seen what his anger has the power to do.

There are many that hate him- he does not allow himself to break under their fear of him, to hate them back. In truth, he can't even bring himself to resent them- not the man that snarls at him, or the specialist who says he should be locked away, or the lab assistant who is polite to him but flinches from his touch when he forgets and reaches to shake her hand. I apologize, he says quietly, the sound of his own voice distant to his ears, and wrong somehow. He looks somewhere else, and feels his face heat and his throat tighten, and the worst is that he doesn't blame her, that he can't blame her for fearing him, for thinking he's dangerous, because she's right. He deflects harsh words with soft-spoken deprecation and accepts them as his due. Monster, monster, monster.

Every friendship, every word of kindness is a wonder that he treasures but feels he does not deserve. Friends are an indulgence he should not allow himself (the danger of it, oh the danger) but these people- these incredible, wonderful people, that he has fought with, that have let him into their homes, into their hearts and teased him and thrown an arm over his shoulders (they don't know how fucking breakable they are). They are kind. These people who call him friend, who inexplicably want him in their lives, though all the logic and science in his head can't understand why and no formula he ever creates can possibly explain. The team who piles on one couch when they're all watching a movie (elbows on his legs, arms rested on eachother's, popcorn in a bowl at their feet) and never think anything of it, who shoot the shit with him at three in the morning when he can't fall asleep…these people he is learning to name, from the strange warm ache in his chest, as his friends. Friends. To Bruce Banner, that concept tastes of longing, that reality means danger , that word is something that belongs in his past. Control is everything, he tells himself. Keep in control. He ought to stay away. He knows he should. It's been what he's been telling himself ever since the accident and every subsequent day since, through the blank memories and the ripped clothing, through the cold metallic taste of the barrel in his mouth, and then, a year later, through the aftershock of the words he hadn't meant to say : You can't kill me- I know, I've tried. Through the rules he gave himself, the meditation, and then, finally, the lab reports and the tests, the questions and the half smiles, just teeth and no soul.

Control is everything, he tells himself. Through the glass of the wall size windows on his floor every morning he looks at the sun rising, and breathes in once, measured and steady. A promise. Standing nose tip to the glass each night, he watches the iron grey shadows and changing blues of the sky after the sun has set and breathes out. An admission. Keep control. And yet…

He laughed yesterday; for the first time in so long. It startled even him; it felt so good he doesn't know how he's been living without it. Without smiles- real ones. Without laughter that spills from him unbidden, without the warmth that's settled somewhere deep within him. Without friends. But.

Control is everything. Keep control.

Keep control.

Bruce Banner ought to stay away. He knows it down to his bones, deep to his frayed patchwork of a heart. But just this once, he can't help himself.