Bruce gets it. He really just gets it this time.

I got bored this morning, so I did a new take on an old idea. This is the product of me spending half an hour under my blankets with my Google Drive app on my iPod.

I don't own much, not that that helps anything legally. I'm also my own editor and everything, so any problems are mine.

'So, without further gilding the lily and with no more ado, I give to you,' the story!

Bruce had spent a good amount of time and effort trying to kill himself. His brain was especially roomy, and it left a lot of space for contemplation, and the thoughts were always there. New theories, new ideas on how to finally get this accomplished. The thoughts were kept far away from the part of his mind the Hulk lingered in angrily, always a presence, never giving any him peace of mind, as it were.

His theories raged from brilliant - reverse radiation, shock him out, suppress him - to reasonable - drown him, starve him, poison him - to simply desperate - shoot him, set him on fire, just get him out. Bruce was running out of options.

On his tenth night with no sleep, Bruce sat on the cold, chemical-stained floor of the lab, his back against the wall, his shoulders hunched forward as he disassembled and reassembled his gun. He knew it was the very base definition of insanity to try the same thing more than once and expect a different outcome, but Bruce Banner is nothing if he's not hopefully determined to just end it all.

He wasn't doing this for selfish reasons, he told himself. He didn't want to die, not really. He hated himself enough that he wouldn't mind, but there were plenty of reasons to live; to see his children grow up was his main reason. But they were young now, young enough to not remember him if he succeeded soon. He was doing this for them. He was doing this for their protection, for the team's protection, for the protection of anyone who might have the misfortune of passing him on the street. He was a murderer. The Hulk would not exist if he had not had that monstrous potential already writhing under his skin; to get rid of the Hulk was to get rid of Bruce, and he really saw no other way than death at this point.

When Bruce had tried before and Tony found out - though Tony didn't always find out - he would just sit and stare at Bruce. He would say things like "Think of your goddamn kids, Bruce," and "You saved my life, Bruce, and you fought for good," and "The world needs a brilliant mind like yours." Bruce would stand, keeping his eyes down on the floor, and he would always have his answers ready. He'd say "I am thinking of them, Tony," and "Two counts of good do not make up for a lifetime of tragedy and destruction," and "The world can find someone else like you." Tony would stare at him a little longer before just getting up and leaving, leaving Bruce alone, always so alone.

Bruce had six slots available to him in his gun. He had created his own bullets this time, just so it wasn't the same attempt, just so he wasn't insane, and hadn't lost his mind. The first bullet was filled with poison. Always hopeful. Second was a multitude of razors inside of an exterior that would dissolve in water or saliva. Just so he would feel something if it got spat back out. Third was ice. He could always choke him. Fourth was more poison, in the hope that the Other Guy might swallow it in his confusion this time as six bullets shot into him at once. Fifth was a regular bullet, but with a sharper, sleeker exterior, meant for moving more quickly and penetrating with more ease, like through a brick wall or a monster's head. Sixth was his last hope, and it was packed with explosives that should, if Bruce did this right, and he was positive he did, explode inside of the monster and kill only him, and the fire would not leave his body.

Bruce felt a certain measure of excitement as he loaded in his homemade bullets. This could be the one, he told himself. This should, by all rights, be it. He pushed the last bullet in with his thumb and slid the chamber into place, carefully clicking it around so the order would be correct. He bowed his head over the gun in the quiet, drawing his legs closer underneath him, closing his eyes as he maneuvered the gun in his slick palms.

A sudden banging on the door, accompanied by Tony's loud, always so loud, voice calling "Bruce, you in there?" startled him significantly. His hand slipped and yanked the trigger back so the first poisoned bullet ricocheted off the strong metallic wall and clattered across the room. The knocking immediately stopped, then started again just as fast, frantic now, accompanied by demands from Tony to open the door, and JARVIS insisting that it wasn't safe inside. Bruce's eyes were wide open and shot with green, his vision hazed as he tried to calm down, taking deep breaths and using the cold of the metal surfaces he was touching and the gun to ground himself and keep the Hulk at bay. The insistent pounding wasn't helping.

Bruce took a second, a minute, an hour, he didn't know anymore, until his skin turned to it's human tan-brown instead of green, and his eyes were warm chocolate rather than flat, angry emerald. He slid the chamber back open and tore the five bullets back out, ignoring the throbbing of his body, the Hulk's constant roar in his mind, and Tony's shouting and pounding at the door. He knew he ought to be worried, that Tony likely thought he was dead, but Bruce needed this, just for a moment. He loved Tony, but right now, Tony had to wait.

Bruce stood on shaky legs and made his way over to a lab table, carefully and quickly deconstructing his bullets and separating the pieces until they weren't immediately dangerous anymore. The sharp banging on the door was still happening, Bruce noticed, and he wondered just how much time had passed. Time wasn't working right for him right now.

Bruce crossed the lab, moving clumsily around tables and equipment, to the silver door. He pressed in the key code on the side of the door, nestled in the wall, and easily caught Tony when the door slid open and Tony was caught off-balance. Tony, however, shoved Bruce away. Bruce was surprised; this was anger, right here, right now, not disguised, just disgusted. Tony glared at him with open rage, and Bruce accepted it quietly. It was deserved.

"You son of a bitch." Tony snarled, his legs shaking a little like he wanted to move but needed to see Bruce's eyes to scream at him. "We fucking talked about this, Bruce. Or do you not remember the last time you tried to kill yourself in the same house as me and your team and your goddamned children, you asshole?"

Bruce lowered his head, unable to look Tony in the eye right that second, but suddenly, Tony's hand was there, yanking his face up to meet his eyes.

"Don't you dare look away from me. You cannot keep doing this." Tony hissed, right in his face, and Bruce felt his eyes immediately fill with tears, with emotion, like a child getting scolded by a parent, but isn't that what he was? "Bruce, you don't even fucking think. You're supposed to be this brilliant man. Where the hell did that go? Or does it all go out the window when your will to live does?"

Bruce stared back at him, unblinking, tears slipping down his face unevenly. Tony's grip on Bruce's jaw tightened for a moment before he released him. Tony gripped the hair on the sides of his head with his fists and bent a little, like he was about to explode and was trying to contain it. Bruce didn't move, didn't speak.

"I don't care if you think you'd be doing the world a favor. I don't. Care. Because you're fucking dumb as a stump, Banner. This world is nothing without you. Do you understand? It is nothing. If you die, I have to go with you, and guess what? You'd be to blame for that. Our children would lose their father, then they'd lose me, and where does that leave them? Alone. You don't think." Tony was ranting, rambling, his voice rising in speed and ferocity and volume.

Bruce did think, though. He thought about his daughter, with her rich skin and curly brown hair, who tried to climb him whenever he happened to be standing nearby. He thought about his son, with his fat cheeks and warm eyes, who stretched his arms out quietly whenever he caught Bruce's attention. He thought about Tony, who would instinctively press his thumb right above Bruce's clavicle in an effort to comfort him during meetings regarding the Hulk. He thought about Steve, who would stop and randomly tell stories about World War II because Bruce found them fascinating. He thought about Natasha, who taught him how to do a flip in the air one afternoon when they were alone and bored, even if he's still far bulkier and clumsier than she is. He thought about Thor, who would offer one of the two PopTarts in the crinkly silver package to Bruce if he knew it was a flavor his friend enjoyed. He thought about Clint, who showed him how to make bows out of bendy straws and arrows out of toothpicks, and shot the toothpick arrows at him throughout any meal together. He thought about Clint and Natasha's two children, dark-haired, a boy and a girl, just like he had, who smiled when they saw him and loved to play with his messy hair and his pencils. Hell, he thought about Pepper, and Phil, and sometimes even Betty, and he thought about how much he meant to them, and they meant to him, and how much they might miss him. But the pain so outweighed the benefits of protection and safety that Bruce stopped thinking and started acting, started actively attempting to end his life and keep them safe, by any means necessary.

For once, Bruce didn't think about his past. He didn't think about his father beating him. He didn't think about his father killing his mother right in front of his eyes. He didn't think about the people who smacked him around, shouted at him, shot at him. He didn't think about any of it. For once, when Bruce had his gun in his hand, he had this clarity. He could see right through all the bullshit that usually clouded his eyes - all those useless memories and vague thoughts - and see what needed doing.

Tony was still waiting when Bruce returned back to him, leaving his head and his thoughts and surrendering to himself. He looked up, looked Tony straight in the eye, and was startled by what he saw. Genuine anger, genuine sadness, genuine loss and fear and panic and God knows what else. Bruce lowered his eyes to Tony's arc reactor, glowing brighter than he remembered - it's dark around them, it must be late, it must be nighttime by now. He reached out hesitantly, touched the metal circle protruding from the chest in front of him, if only to distract himself from the constant rush and turmoil and whirlpools of his own mind.

"I'm so sorry." Bruce offered finally, his voice low and rasping and finished. Tony pushed Bruce's hand away from the arc reactor.

"Prove it." Tony shot back. "I'm serious, Bruce. Prove that you're sorry. Prove to me that you won't pull this shit again, because I can't take it anymore. That's coming from me, Bruce. I can't take this anymore."

Bruce closed his eyes and was hit by how tired he actually was, ten days without sleep, another experiment that was failing to kill him. He swayed a little, but Tony didn't help him. They both stayed put, and when Bruce opened his eyes again, his eyes were almost a perfect match for Tony's.

"I am. I won't... Tony, that's the only way." Bruce's voice was a whisper, something almost lost in the huge corridor, but stayed trapped between the two men. "The only way to him is through me.

"Jesus, Bruce. Jesus fucking Christ." Tony pushed a hand through his hair and took a couple of steps back before taking them back and returning. "Maybe this should be a goddamn message to you that it's not working. Maybe we need the Hulk. Maybe, Bruce, just maybe, God fucking forbid, we need you."

"I can..." Bruce tried to swallow, couldn't swallow, focused on his hands and tangling his fingers together nervously. His heart was racing, the monitor on his wrist beeping erratically, but Tony, to his credit, didn't so much as blink. Bruce felt a smile pulling at his face, a laugh in his chest, immediate results of his nerves and anxiety and nothing to do with humor at all. "I can try. I... For you, I can... There has to be a way without hurting you, and..."

Tony took Bruce's nervous hands and unknotted them, unwound them, pressing them together in his own. Bruce let the shaky smile come through, though it had no place right now. Tony stepped forward, resting their heads together, and Bruce relaxed out of the tense position he hadn't even known he was holding.

"Hurting you hurts me." Tony informed him, his voice finally calming. "Jesus, Bruce. I just want you to be here."

"I want that, too." Bruce answered automatically, watching their hands twine together.

"Then stop trying to take it away from me." Tony's voice had finally hit a whisper, but he wouldn't cry, not now. Maybe later, when they'd went to bed and the entire gravity of the situation hit him all at once and he looked at Bruce half-asleep next to him, breathing steadily, all curly hair and scarred skin and warm aura, and realized what he could have lost tonight, and all those other nights before, and he'd shake Bruce a little, wake him up so they could talk, but he'd end up taking Bruce instead, because he was better at that, and that made him feel secure, and Bruce would let him, and he'd hold him as he cried, and he'd keep him safe from himself. But not now.

"Okay." Bruce agreed quietly. "Okay."