The metal feels cold and smooth and absolutely beautiful in his hands. The curve of it is pristine; they remind him of the soft shape of a woman's hips, only slighter, stronger. He traces the barrel of it with a finger, marveling at the craftsmanship, the art that has gone into making something that is only supposed to destroy.
That's the great irony of human life, he supposes.
Lifting it, Bruce presses the gun into the soft flesh of his throat, feeling his pulse leap at the cool steel touching his skin. He breathes deeply, forcing himself to relax — because if he starts to panic, if he starts to think about dying, the Other Guy will show up. And it's because of Him that Bruce is sitting here at all.
This feels wrong. He frowns, lowering the gun and examining it, as if there is a flaw in the design that he did not spot before. The grey sheen is soft in the darkness of Bruce's room, but he imagines green eyes looking back at him, and he shudders.
He lifts the gun again, and presses it against his temple. He wonders, vaguely, why people never experiment when they shoot themselves. There are a hundred places to put a bullet that will cause you to die, but it's always the mouth, the head, the neck. The gun goes down again.
He sighs, toying with the hammer of the gun. He can't hear anything except the soft hum of energy that keeps the mansion running, but even if it were pandemonium outside, he could probably go unnoticed. He's not stupid: he knows that he's worth something.
He's just not worth as much as the Other Guy.
The gun goes up once more, and this time, Bruce presses it against his forehead: the bullet would go right through his brain. Supposedly. For a few minutes, he sits like that, flexing his free hand. Time ticks on.
Tony's heart (such as he is loathe to call it) hums rather like his mansion does, albeit on a softer pitch. By the time Bruce hears it, it's too late. He feels Tony's hand on his shoulder. He wants to throw him off. Just this once, he wants to transform.
"I'm not going to do it." He says, which sounds stupid, seeing as Tony has just walked in on him pressing a gun into his head.
"I know."
They're silent. Tony's silent. Bruce is silent. They are silent together.
"Would it matter?" He asks, finally.
"You dying?"
"Yeah."
Tony doesn't say anything for a moment, so all Bruce can hear is the steady hum of that heart, and the thud of his own pulse in his ears.
"Yeah."
He waits.
"They think I'm some sort of thrill seeker out for a joyride. They think, when I'm pushing the limits, when I'm going as fast as I can, seeing if I can outfly bullets, I'm having fun. No one ever asks me why I've got a death wish, half the time."
Bruce lowers the gun.
"If this world … if this place thinks I'm important to keep around — some selfish, arrogant prick who used to make weapons because it paid the bills — then you can bet that they'll want you. Not the Hulk. You."
He falls silent. Bruce is silent. They're silent together.
Bruce drops the gun onto the table next to him, and rises to his feet. His face is pale, but his eyes are dry.
"Coulson probably wouldn't want me to ruin his gun like that, anyways."
Tony doesn't say anything, but his hug is comforting, all the same.