The thing about his suicide attempt was that it wasn't his ONLY attempt. It was however the first to lead to hulking out. There were several trials and errors and out of impatience and despair he tried to blow his brains out. An idiotic idea really. How did he ever think that the Hulk wouldn't come out simply since he was pulling the trigger? Every other time a bullet pierced through him the bastard forced his way out anyway.
When he woke up to find himself in the snow, naked and blood filling slowly into his mouth the only thing he could think of was to cry. He screamed through his sobs, blood spraying across the icy ground. He was alone at least. Thank goodness he was alone. No one could be hurt when he was alone. He sat in the snow, crying and screaming until he passed out, whimpering still in his sleep.
He moved on after that. No more cures. No more attempts. He would do something that wasn't completely fucked up for once. He did good, until THEY had dragged him into a freak show.
He did not regret what happened in Manhattan. It was one of the finer points of his life within the last decade or so. And he also realized how pathetic that was. But he was a pathetic excuse of a man so it fit. He went back into the world, slipping away from the temptation and pleads to make a home in the country of his origin. But he couldn't focus, not completely. No, the idiotic genius whom he so quickly turned into a close acquaintance (he refused to have friends, and having close acquaintances were rare things) had bid him farewell with You always have a place here. And it irked him how he Could have that but really he Couldn't or at least Shouldn't. He wanted many things. Having a home was one of them. But he almost never got what he wanted. So he worked most at the next best option which was helping others, which really he wanted That too.
At night though, when he finally willed himself to rest in a small corner, he'd have fewer nightmares, but the dreams were so much worse. They were full of possibilities and Hope and more than he could take, waking up with tears. Than other nights there were memories of his attempts. It had surprised him, since he really only dreamed of the last attempt, most likely since the Hulk was pissed at him still. But he was always pissed.
He knew the acid wouldn't work. Ross had already bathed him in it, but he needed the burn. He needed to try again.
Waking up in a cabin, some kids finding him hung from a tree, cutting him down and taking him home. The feeling under his touch of a neck rubbed raw.
He would wake up then, when the feeling was too real. And the urge to try again burned in him, a pressure in his chest. The thought swirled between the ever present anger and growing depression that always flared up when he had time to think.
If you were to ask him when his first attempt had been, he would have laughed. The first time was so so SO pathetic really. He had been in his early teens, living still with his father, and had tried to hang himself. Only the rope had broken, his father woke up, and he received another beating. Ah childhood.
His second attempt had been only a few years later and he still laughed because looking back it seemed like the angst of a teenager. He knew how it felt when you were IN those years but in his own case well yeah. He didn't have as many reasons as he did now, after years of accumulation of screw ups. He had been a lonely teenager who hated himself and his father and wanted nothing more than to sock every idiot in the class in their jaw or break a girl's leg for talking too loud. He began cutting himself when the urge to slit his teacher's throat had wiggled its way to the fore front of his mind. Soon his abdomen and chest were covered in the tiny cuts. One day he was just… done. It was the only time he cut his arm for that. The scar was faint since he cut along the line of muscle properly, digging deep and reveling in the pain and sickly feeling of warm blood pouring out of him. They found him unconscious in a bath tub and forced him into therapy.
No therapist in the world could handle his shit.
He read the ingredients and warnings and everything in the pill bottle several times before he started really thinking. He hypothesized that this wouldn't work but really he wasn't feeling to creative right now.
He remembered the shock all through his body, jolting him down to his very core, his skin burning in the water while the toaster sank further down.
There was the time he attached his legs to a horse, throwing a stone at him to make him run, dragging along jagged rocks and dirt, cut and bruised all over until the animal stopped. Really it only caused him pain, but pain was good. He deserved it.
The other times he had tried pills they had been sleeping pills. Then heart medication. Then just a medicine cabinet he came across. He realized on the run that people needed those pills for living and he was just screwing their chances of getting the life savers he used for self-destruction so he had stopped. These ones however were anti-anxiety, depression, mood stabilizers, ADHD medications; things that combined would turn him crazy but hopefully all those side effects that came with it would kill him. He could endure some suffering for the greater good.
They didn't work. He didn't hulk out though. At least there was that.
He thought about joining the Avengers once or twice but dismissed it easily. They wanted the Hulk. He didn't want them to have him. Everyone always wanted the Hulk, either to use him or kill him or whatever. No one ever really needed Bruce Banner. The hellicarrier and finding the cube would be an exception, except for the fact that yes in the end the Hulk did come out and yes he was used and yes he was OK with that. He didn't want there to be a common theme though. He was tired and sad and angry at being the plus one of sorts. It was never about him and it never has been. The only exception might be Betty. His work and rages and acquaintances (even back then he didn't have friends) were never about him really. But Betty aid attention to him. Because of that she ended up dead. And that is unfair.
"Life is unfair, Banner" he murmured to himself, staring down from the building. It wouldn't work, but just the feelings of being up high and so close to the edge made him feel a bit better.
He was in Greenland drinking ale from a glass boot, trying to ignore the annoyance that was a drunken man singing karaoke when he received the call. The elderly woman had handed him the phone and he heard instantly from the speaker the sound of a familiar voice.
"Bruce Banner do you know how hard it is to locate you?" He'd only been there for a few days so he was surprised. "I'm just outside the airport. I'm in the blue car. What kind of rental place has only three fucking cars-"
"How did you find me?" Bruce asked quietly, ignoring the stares he received from the few sober ones in the bar. Meaning the old woman and some guy who was working his way up to drunk.
"I was in the airport and I spotted you" was the bull shit reply… well maybe not. He did have to change flights in Germany, since Egypt didn't fly directly there.
"So you followed someone who looked similar to me and just up and boarded a-"
"Are you the red car? I just passed a red car." He was the red car, but he deflected the question.
"Stark-"he started.
"Tony. It's Tony. I told you its Tony."
"Whatever you say Stark." He hung up then and asked kindly of the woman not to give him the phone if someone asked for him again.
It was only a few minutes later when Tony Stark graced their presence, swinging the door open and letting in the cold.
"Bruce!" Tony practically tackled him in a hug. Huh, he didn't think he was a hugger. After a few seconds of being squeezed he was released to find the man grinning at him. Bruce smiled softly. He couldn't help himself. He could stand talking to someone for a moment. Tony sat beside him, ordering a scotch. The woman laughed and served him up beer in a boot.
"So Stark how was your flight?" Bruce hoped Tony would end up rambling. He didn't have much to say.
"Empty. I was he only one on the flight and I couldn't take the jet since the airport only fits one freaking plane and" Ah yes rambling, perfect. Bruce listened, smiling and nodding at the right intervals. Tony went from the plane to his business trip in Germany to what had been going on in his research and development department, to how he was rebuilding a suit to how the rest had blown up. He fell silent then and the silence was suffocating. It wouldn't have been if it wasn't the look on Tony's face.
"So how are you and Pepper?" That got Tony started again, and Bruce felt relieved to not have to engage much. The drunken singer finally shut up, having passed out at a table, and the other two in the bar left. Yes there had only been five of them. This was Greenland. There was like eight people.
"Where have you been?" Tony asked in the middle of a sentence. Bruce sighed and looked into his beer. He wished he could get drunk.
"Here and there; just came from Egypt."
"Oh, and you were doing?" Bruce looked at Tony who appeared genuinely curious. Treating bullet wounds and the usual diseases, wallowing in self-pity, attempting suicide, you know the usual. He huffed out a laugh.
"Oh just the usual," He managed, smirking into his boot. Tony's face fell just a smidge. "Nothing that interesting really; I'd hate to bore-"
"You're not going to bore me," Tony stated firmly, a frown forming on his face. For a minute Bruce worried if the man could see just how miserable he really was. "I haven't seen you for over two years."
"It's been that long huh?" Bruce felt like Manhattan had been only a few weeks ago. Time flies when you're trying to end it all. He pushed those thoughts down for the moment and forced a smile. It was easy. He'd had decades of practice. He told some stories that were only half of what really went on. He described in not too much detail certain cases and at one moment he was shot in the leg without Hulking out. He had been very proud of that and told that part with enthusiasm. He mentioned some interesting sites and some strange food that he would rather not eat again and random stuff as if it were a vacation and not a grueling struggle. Tony listened though, nodding and smiling at certain spots. His face was mostly neutral though, as if he knew that Bruce was hiding something. Suddenly Tony was frowning, his forehead crinkling and Bruce was about to ask what was wrong but the woman came in and told them that it was closing time. The expression left Tony's face, but Bruce fell silent after paying for his drinks and thanking her quietly. She gave a dismissing wave and Bruce began to leave rather quickly. If Tony figured it out-
"HEY!" Bruce stopped then, turning to see Tony jogging up to him. Bruce had almost made it to the car. Almost. "You're not just leaving me again are you?" Tony asked, his voice sounding genuinely distressed. Guilt flared in him and his chest felt tight.
"No," he said. He settled on getting in his car, and figuring that the idiot of a genius would follow him.
This was a very bad idea. Tony had been uncharacteristically quiet when he asked for Bruce to come to Malibu with him. He came up with hundreds, if not thousands of reasons why that had been an awful idea in his head since then, his mind and body screaming for him to just RUN. But he couldn't. Not when the great Tony Stark looked so… vulnerable? That was the only way he could describe it.
He had not realized what he was signing up for. Usually he looked forward to Tony's stories and words and conversation. Sitting in a chair and listening to him for hours well…he drifted. Nothing against Tony, but he was just exhausted. The night had been ridden with those quiet nightmares that would jolt him awake with a silent gasp instead of a scream. But Tony's voice soothed him and he slept the best he had in months, much to the idiotic genius' dismay. When Tony looked at him, annoyed and disappointed Bruce's only thought was how he was useless. He couldn't eve pay attention to something so important. He could tell it was but he had been so tired. Selfish. Stupid.
"I'm not that kind of doctor," He heard himself saying. How was he supposed to help when all he wanted was to die?
"What you don't have the time?" Tony asked.
"The temperament" Bruce answered, sighing. Tony had clasped a hand to his forehead and began to talk about his childhood. Bruce nearly groaned, rubbing his face and letting his head hang back. But he stayed awake this time.
Bruce was packing his necessities quietly, not wishing to awake anyone. He tried before but Tony always talked him out of it. He knew it was low for him to sneak away in the night, after he and Pepper had let him in for what he thought was much too long. He could tell Pepper was not completely comfortable, though she was extremely good at hiding it. He snuck out, leaving a simple note and kicking himself for looking back before he walked away.
Bruce found himself in Chile. Sitting under a tree with a makeshift structure he watched the rain pour. Some water trickled on him but the structure was holding well enough. He scratched at his growing beard. He was hiding again. He had been too recognizable last time. You can hide under hair.
He was cold and hungry and wet and miserable. None of these things were unfamiliar with his day to day life. He had tried to slit his throat this morning, but his skin healed rapidly fast and he could only savor the pain briefly. The Hulk had roared and screamed but didn't force his way out. The anger was building, a painful pressure against his skull, and he wanted to scream and roar and cry. He didn't tough. He sat watching the rain. That is before he was knocked out.
When he woke up he felt like he was in one of his dreams. That feeling of everything being too real for such an unrealistic place was unsettling at best. His head was pounding and waves of nausea swept over him. He dry heaved for a minute or so. Or more. He couldn't tell.
The place he was in lighted up, the bulbs shining harsh rays into the place. A look around could tell you it was most likely a ware house. Walls dirty metal, floor bare concrete, tall ceiling, and no visible exit in his position. Empty. He pulled at the binds only to find them unknotted. He lost balance and stumbled onto the floor. Groaning he looked at the only furniture in the room. A hard plastic chair and a frayed rope. He stared at the chair for a while, headache slowly turning into that familiar pressure the feels like it's about to swell out of your eye sockets. Love that feeling. So pleasant.
The silence was interrupted; and by interrupted a screeching noise that stabbed through Bruce's ears like a thousand blades erupted out of nowhere. He shut his eyes and covered his ears in a feeble attempt to block it out. The sound just grew louder and the pitch turned higher and Bruce couldn't tell if he was imagining the warm liquid flowing between his fingers. Just as suddenly as it started, the noise was gone. The suffocating silence returned ten-fold. Bruce didn't move.
As the tight little ball of bones and organs he was he could not find an answer as to what was happening. If he was captured did they know he was the Hulk? Anyone with half a brain would tie the other guy up. If they didn't know who he was why take him? Was he even being held? These were the questions he would have asked if his mind was not simply and endless stream of 'OW OW OW OW OW OW OW'. The ringing in his ears covered over the sound of heels clacking against the concrete. When he did open his eyes and uncover his ear- ah yes that was ear blood- he finally took note of the shadow looming over him.
Shit
He did not move, nor did the shadow. Time was nothing at the moment and Bruce couldn't tell if it had been seconds or years. Decades. Centuries. Hell maybe he'd die of old age. He almost laughed.
The click of the heels began again as the shadow became a…something. It was hard to tell just by the feet. He didn't look up though, just stared at the feet.
Slick black heels so high they could snap your ankle: Skin dark but with a strange paleness, as if lacking blood flow. He said nothing when the figure sat on the plastic chair.
A sweet voice with a strange accent laced though it spoke first.
"Robert David Bruce Banner; quite a mouthful."
Experience has taught Bruce to expect a lot of things from life, and to adapt to the differing variables. Being held by a stranger with the threat of either hulking out or being tortured filling his mind is one common scenario of his existence.
He worked slowly to get himself sitting properly, grinding his teeth to keep any groans from escaping, fighting the nausea that made him want to heave again. He toys with the idea that he has been drugged. The possibility is not unlikely especially since he wasn't tied up. Dumb move.
"Should I know you?" Bruce asks, not yet ready to face his captor. He's still fighting the dizziness.
"Probably not," was the answer. What was that accent? German? Dutch? Hebrew- for fucks sake he sucks at this. He looked at his new buddy and studied her. The dark-but-pale legs were only visible by inches, the rest of her covered in a long dress. She wore a hijab as well. The outfit was as black as the heels. Her face was…interesting. A bit cartoonish even. Too large eyes of a deep blue under well-kept eyebrows, lips thin but mouth wide, nose bulbous and reddish. Rudolph the red nose reindeer. Her cheeks were fat and there were acne scars on her forehead. She smiled, showing her yellowing teeth. He gave a crooked smile of his own.
She leaned forward and stared him in the eyes, smile fading. Again time stood still for a while.
"…I prefer not going by my whole name." Bruce said eventually. She didn't even blink at that. "Any reason I'm here or-"
"What do you think of tortoises?" She asked out of nowhere. Bruce was surprised how serious she seemed to be.
"…uh, I-"
"Tortoises are a lot like squares you know," she continued leaning back against the chair, looking towards the ceiling.
"Okay," was all Bruce could come up with because THIS variable was becoming harder and harder to read.
"I mean all tortoises are turtles, yes? But not all turtles are tortoises. That's not how it works." She lulled her head around till she was staring at the left wall. "Then there are squares. Squares are a type of rectangle, yes? But not all rectangles are squares. That's just not how it works." She lulled her head again so she could stare at the right wall.
"Uh…" Bruce could see that. It was completely irrelevant and weird but okay. He forced a polite smile. "Yes I agree." Experience has also taught him to be polite until there was a threat. Captors and enemies did not often expect politeness.
"So the Hulks are always Banner, but Banner is not always a Hulk."
Oh.
"That's not…how it works." Bruce answered slowly, hoping that she misspoke when saying Hulks. As in plural. As in how the fuck had she found that out?
"Then how does it work?" She asked, looking down on him with a strange expression; a cross between curiosity and disappointment.
"It's a secret."
"Keeping secrets is bad for one's health."
"Sharing secrets can be harmful to the listener. I'd hate to make you sick."
She fell quiet for a then and time was nothing again. Bruce found no comfort in knowing what was wanted of him. Of course it was the Hulk. He was sick of it. Sick of everything.
The feeling of a blade through your chest depends on the blade. Curved feels like hell. Serrated feels like damnation. But a smooth sharp blade feels like heaven. If only it would work.
The urge to cut something came again. To try and stop this sickness.
"Why do you try so hard?" Bruce looked her in the eye. That same expression. "Is it really that difficult?" Bruce stayed quiet. "You can be killed, yes?"
"I don't know."
"You try to find out, yes?" Bruce said nothing. "You shouldn't. It's bad for health." She closed her eyes and sighed. "Bad things are going to happen soon, yes. Yes very bad things; men still want serum." She tapped her feet once. Twice. "You helped make it, yes? It made the Hulks." Bruce almost laughed; almost smiled, almost caved into the feeling of oh yes she doesn't know. Because the more people know the more of a threat they are. He forced a blank expression though. "Bad things will happen. You help stop them, yes?"
"Why would I do that?" Bruce asked, head spinning. He wanted to heave again.
"You could die." Bruce closed his eyes to stop the spinning world. A quiet whistling was starting to fill the room. "You help, yes? Help in Peru."
"Help with what" but his words were lost. The world became a screeching siren that made Bruce tighten up into a small ball once again, filled with pain. The screeching seemed to go on forever. Time was nonexistent.
He was not going to Peru. He was not going to Peru. HE WAS NOT GOING TO FUCKING PERU.
As he booked a ticket to Peru, Bruce contemplated his life choices. He couldn't quite explain why he was purchasing a ticket and not running to the smallest crevice in the earth to hide. He could only say that it felt too much like Greenland, Tony's look of vulnerability swaying him to go into dangerous waters despite every instinct and reason to run.
Why he was going in a plane was beyond him as well. He hated airports. And planes. Being in a pressurized container with a bunch of strangers was not ideal. Greenland had been the only exception to the rule considering how few people ever go on their airline. He had been one of three passengers (almost half of their population). Customs was awful. He worked hard to keep from going green and horror stroked him whenever his hand seemed to blotch unnatural spots. The plane was crammed and he felt claustrophobic. The screaming infant was just a cherry on the proverbial shit Sunday he ordered.
When he finally stepped into Peru it was only then did he realize he had absolutely no place to go to.
"Wow Banner," Bruce scoffed to himself, walking out and continuing on. Walking on and on and on and on he finally stopped when he felt rest to be a necessity. He had tried to remind himself that he was not on the run, that he did not have to keep moving, but his body seemed to always be in a fight or flight mode and he only stopped when his throat was dry, his legs felt like jelly, and his breathe became ragged gulps of dusty air. He settled under a deck of what appeared to be an abandoned shack (hopefully) and rested in the dirt. It was not ideal, but it would do. However, when he heard the familiar whining that busted his ears from Chile, he froze. Then it was gone. A strange accent filled the air though.
"You came to help, yes?" Bruce closed his eyes and nestled the dirt.
"Help with what?" He mumbled once more.
"Stopping the end."
(continued)
