"There's someone else, isn't there?" You looked up at the man you loved, your eyes shining with tears. He said nothing. "Lucas, just stop fucking lying to my face and tell me there's someone else." Your voice was hoarse from the 15 minute screaming match that just took place after coming back to your apartment to find your boyfriend's things all packed. He nodded slowly. "I'm sorry. I didn't plan it …. But it made me realize that this, us, isn't working anymore. I really did try, Y/N. But you're better off with someone who can work well with …. Well," he broke off awkwardly.
"My powers?" You let out a harsh laugh, wiping angry tears away with the back of your hand. You mean this? Something that is part of who I am, that I NEVER CHOSE TO HAVE?" You gesticulated wildly as the room temperature instantly increased, the flames on your stove turning on and your palms turning a fiery red.
"I told you what the fuck you were getting into with me, all of me, and you told me you loved me enough that it didn't matter."
Lucas stood there quietly. "I'm sorry, Y/N. It's not just the powers. I just don't feel that way about you anymore."
That was it. With a simple statement, you felt every fiber of your being flooding with stabbing pain. You were spinning, spinning. Whatever was holding you together had snapped. You were being unmade. "You're sorry? A year and a half with me and that's all I get? Your voice shook as waves of fear, pain, and bewilderment racked your body. Lucas stared blankly, letting out an exhale. "There's just nothing else I can say."
You shook your head, un clenching and clenching your palms feeling an oncoming anxiety attack. "Just get the fuck out of my apartment, Lucas." He paused, opening his mouth to speak but you cut him off. "I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT," you yelled, flames emitting from your palms.
He turned and just like that, your love was gone.
Sliding down the door that had just been slammed shut, you hugged your knees into your chest and covered your mouth with your hand, desperately trying to keep yourself from crying out. Your breath became uneven as you let your humanity take over; loud, ugly sobs racking your body. It was a wild, encompassing grief like you had never known before. Tears poured out as you curled up on your side, gripping your hair with your hands. You had loved Lucas with everything you had; you really thought you two had a future together. Your chest heaved and you longed to reach inside and rip out that beating heart, to instill some sense of numbness and shut away the despair coursing through your veins. To just let it end. You needed a distraction, you needed to escape. You steadied your breathing and rubbed your red-rimmed eyes, standing up to shakily walk over to your liquor cabinet.
"When you go, would you have the guts to say 'I don't love you like I did yesterday?" Gerard Way's wailing voice blared loudly from your Bluetooth speakers as you staggered around your apartment with a trash bag in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. Ripping down pictures and memories and burying them down into the dark abyss of the black, plastic bag you dragged around. You raised the bottle to your lips, feeling the familiar burn of alcohol scorching your throat and insides. You licked your lips and rolled your head around. You were drunk, but still cognizant enough to feel the weight of the lyrics coming out of your speakers.
You looked at your wall. There was a few pictures left with the Avengers, including a picture of you and Bruce taken on your birthday. You were tipsy and kissing his cheek while he looked up with a small smile. You stared at it. You and Bruce had immediately clicked when you joined the Avengers, both introverts who weren't that used to working with others. You found solace in each other's company; everyone was surprised at how quickly you too seemed to bond. Your eyes filled with more tears. You wanted to see Bruce. But not like this, not when you were spinning so far out.
You felt the waves of hurt coming back, squeezing your eyes tightly to fight against the coming onslaught of emotion. "Don't fucking cry don't fucking cry, STOP FUCKING CRYING," you angrily hissed at yourself, your voice breaking as the sobs came flooding back.
You cried yourself out and looked around. The liquor wasn't enough. You needed a real, tangible, visible distraction. A way to get control and to stop the screaming in your head. With bleary eyes, your gaze landed on the table where the pocket knife that you kept on missions lay.
Your fingers twitched.
Before you were on medication for your depression and anxiety, you had a real problem with self harm. For a year now, you had struggled and fought. If you picked the razor up, you eventually put it back. The Avengers had been nothing but supportive, even giving you small things like stress balls and ice cubes to run over your skin to use as a substitute for self destructive behaviors. Lucas had really helped you along as well, but where was he now? "Gone," you thought flatly. "I'm not worth the effort. I'm not worth anything."
You reached out and gripped the handle firmly. You stared at the cold metal, a voice in your head begging you to put it back. But grief spoke louder. You pressed the tip of the blade to your wrist, exhaling sharply as the first drop of crimson appeared. You could handle this kind of pain. You breathed out again, brushed away a tear sliding down your cheek. With every line you drew on your skin, you felt a small sense of release.
Pulling yourself out of your thoughts after a few minutes, you blinked heavily and looked down at your arm. Panic replaced the brief sense of control you had felt. "Shit, shit, shit," you muttered. Your breathing grew shallow as you became dizzy; your arm was a mess of gushing red. Were some of those lines vertical? You couldn't even tell. The temperature in the room was increasing again and you saw the tiny balls of flame appear in your hands. You ran to the sink and splashed water all over yourself, trying to calm yourself down enough to make sure you didn't torch your apartment. The flames diminished. You turned to grab paper towels, the blood seeping right through as if there was nothing inhibiting its flow. You felt icy waves of terror flooding your senses. You didn't want to die, you just wanted to stop the heartbreak.
Placing survival above anything else at this point, you fumbled with your phone, pressing Bruce's name and praying for an answer. "Y/N?" Bruce's voice echoed on the receiver. "It's midnight," he said laughing. "What do you -" "I fucked up Bruce I'm bleeding so bad I'm such a fuck up I'm so sorry I cut so deep I didn't realize I'm gonna die I need help please help me," you spoke in rapid fire as your voice shook. You were crying again, hard. "I don't know what to do I don't want to die I just wanted it all to stop I'm so fucked up I can't take it," "Y/N, slow down right now," Bruce said with a new alertness. "Did you hurt yourself?Where's Lucas?" "Yes," you choked out. With a shaky laugh, you continued, "and he's gone. He broke up with me and I spun the fuck out I can't breathe I don't know what to do," your voice was slurred and reaching a high pitch that only terror and intoxication can bring. There was a brief pause. "I'm coming over, don't leave your apartment and keep pressure on the cuts. I need you to stay awake for me, even if you're tired, OK?" You cried harder. "I'm so sorry, Bruce." You hung up the phone and looked down at the lines running criss cross across your skin. Grief, nausea, shame and panic rattled around you as you threw up in your sink. You slumped to the ground and waited for a loud knock on the door.
Bruce hung up the phone and immediately went to grab medical supplies. Throwing things haphazardly into his messenger bag, he felt his own kind of panic take over. "Please let me be able to help her, please don't let those cuts be too deep, I can't lose her." Bruce's thoughts raced around his head as he ticked off items at the same time – needles, disinfectant, bandages and on and on. Still in sweats and a long sleeved shirt, Bruce flew out his door and headed toward the garage, nearly wiping Tony out while rounding a corner. "Woah there, Doc? You got a hot date or something?" Stopping briefly, Bruce turned around. "Y/N called me saying she cut herself too deep. She's drunk, I could barely understand her but she was screaming that she was a fuck up and that Lucas dumped her. I don't think she's ok." Lines of worry appeared on Tony's forehead. He tossed Bruce the keys to his Mercedes. "This will get you there faster. Keep me posted, let me know if she needs the hospital, I'll fly her out. "Thanks, I will." Bruce ran down the stairs and unlocked the car, speeding off into the late New York City rush of cars with his hands clenched on the steering wheel. "Hang in there, Y/N," he muttered to himself quietly. "I'm coming."
You unlocked the door, opening to see a disheveled Bruce standing there with his messenger bag. He let out a short sigh of relief, cut short when he took a closer look at your pale face and unfocused vision, his gaze drifting down to the wad of blood soaked Bounty towels you clutched on your forearm. "Jesus Christ. C'mon, Y/N." Bruce scooped you into his arms with surprising availing, placing you down on the couch and peeling off matted paper towels to look at the mess underneath on your arm. You bit your lip and looked away, anywhere but looking at Bruce. You didn't want to see disappointment in his face. "You need stitches now," he said, already digging through his bag. You didn't even wince as the disinfectant stung you. You felt small and weak and tainted, ashamed that you had let your emotions push you back to self destruction.
Bruce got to work and looked up at you purposefully avoiding his gaze. "Can I ask what happened?" You shook your head quickly like a small child afraid of being scolded. "Y/N," Bruce said gently. You looked at him, his brown eyes filled with so much genuine concern and you broke. You felt so safe around Bruce and were able to swallow the lump in your throat. Staring back up at the ceiling, you told him what sent you over the edge.
"Lucas … He doesn't love me. He couldn't take my powers and he doesn't love me anymore. Oh, and he had been cheating on me. Probably with that blonde waitress he'd always eye fuck whenever we went out for breakfast. Fuck. I can't believe I trusted him, I just thought he loved me for me you know." Your voice cracked. "But I guess I'm too fucked up for anyone to want to stay. I don't blame him. I -"
"Hey, hey, hey," Bruce cut you off, pulling himself up next to you and turning your face toward his. "Listen to me, Y/N. You didn't do anything wrong. If that asshole can't see how great you are, that's his loss." He got back to work on your arm. "I know you loved him and I'm so sorry, Y/N, but fuck him. You deserve so much more." You stared at Bruce; he very rarely swore. He smiled slightly at the stunned look on your face, turning his gaze back to his handiwork on your forearm. "This won't feel good," he said grimly before pulling a stitch with a tough tug. You flinched but said nothing.
After a few moments of silence, you spoke. "I'm so sorry you have to do this," you whispered. "I just didn't know who else to call that wouldn't think I was a freak. You shouldn't have to take care of me. I don't deserve -"
"You're not a freak, Y/N," Bruce said frowning. "No one in the tower thinks that and no one wants to see you in this much pain." Wrapping some final bandages around your arm, he gave your hand a small squeeze. "You deserve to be with someone who loves you for who you are. Good and bad. And you'll find that, I promise," he said, brushing some stray hair out of your face before turning his attention back to your arm. "As for this … You're human, we all are. And everyone gets low. I never, ever want to see you hurting yourself, but I understand the thoughts behind it…" He smiled sadly. "You know that I tried to kill myself .. To just want to stop the pain. But I'm here now, and I'm better and I'm here for you. We all are. And you'll keep fighting because that's who you are."
You felt tears of gratitude sparkling in your eyes. "Thank you, Bruce. I don't know what I'd do without you." In a moment of impulse, you curled up into him and placed your head on his shoulder. You felt him tense for a moment, unsure of what to do. You lifted your head back up. "I'm sorry," you mumbled. "I didn't mean to make you feel weird. It's just," you broke off. "No, it's ok," he said softly. "It's just what?" You looked at him intently, your eyes tracing from his tousled dark hair to his gentle face, taking in his strong hands and how close he was to you. "I guess I just feel safe whenever I'm with you. Happy. Like you make the bad stuff go away." You cast your eyes downward, not sure if you had made him feel uncomfortable again. You were surprised, but pleased, then, when Bruce pulled you in toward him again, letting you nestle into his shoulder while he stroked your hair softly. You breathed in his warmth and the smell of his cologne, feeling yourself drifting off to sleep. You felt his chest fall as he exhaled deeply. "Trust me, Y/N," he murmured quietly. "I know that feeling." You fell asleep almost instantly, but Bruce stayed up awhile longer, savoring the presence of your body wrapped innocently against him and continuing to stroke your hair. "Like when you're with them, you know you're home," he added softly.