I'm self-conscious about posting this. I don't write "serious" things, and so this was hard for me. Please keep that in mind before you review.

I'm not very familiar with Bruce Banner/the Hulk beyond what I've seen in the movies, so I've taken liberties with the character. Vast liberties.

Trigger warning for self-injury.

8-28-12: This story is now complete. There are a few things I want to put up here now that it's done.

1. This story contains no sex and no romance. Writing romance gives me anxiety.

2. Despite the lack of sex, the M rating holds, mostly for thematic elements. This is not a happy story. There is no fluff, no fuzzy warmth, and no happy ending.

3. There is a sequel. It is called "Cause and Effect," and will be coming during the first or second week of September.

Thanks for reading!

Dr. Bruce Banner was not accustomed to people...caring.

Indeed, it had been so long since anyone had that the possibility no longer registered in his mind.

Living alone in the third world, his existence had been quite selfish. Not in a bad way, but in an I-only-have-to-think-about-myself kind of way. Although the solitude was oppressive and, at times, suffocating, it was also freeing in a way. Certainly, it was easier, not having to think about how his actions would affect the people around him.

Well, aside from focusing on avoiding turning into a giant green catastrophe.

Avoiding the Other Guy was, of course, ever present in his mind. That was the macro level. On a micro level he was selfish. After being so alone for so long, he just didn't think about other people. They didn't register.

Which is why, when he heard the lab door sliding open behind him, he didn't immediately stop what he was doing.

But then:

"What the fuck are you doing?"

That stopped him.

It occurred to him, then, that his current actions could possibly be interpreted as "completely fucking crazy." That wasn't the case, though; he could explain.

"Tony, I can explain this," he said, calmly. Tony, however, was not calm. At all.

"Can you really? Because, to me, it looks like you're trying to break your fucking arm."

Bruce considered that. He could understand how it looked, but really, Tony of all people should know about the strength of bone and the force required to damage it. Unless you applied torsion, then it wouldn't take much because bones-long bones at least-weren't meant to move that way...

Tony was still looking at him expectantly, wearing an expression that fell somewhere between anger and concern. Bruce realized he hadn't started speaking yet.

"Okay," he began. "I'm sure you know about endorphins..."

It was something he'd discovered after breaking Harlem.

He'd returned from working at his current menial job in his current third world country and found that his hovel (he hesitated to call it his home) had been ransacked and more-or-less destroyed. Bruce was not overly attached to material things-after all, he was living in a hovel in a third world country. He was, however, attached to his laptop, which was now missing. Oh, wait, not missing. In pieces, on the floor. Shit. Contained on that laptop was all of his notes and research on his condition. Of course, Bruce wasn't a moron-he had saved backups of his work, but losing his laptop was still a huge blow. He lived in a hovel in a third world country. Where was he going to get a new one?

He began to feel angry.

Looking at the mess of broken glass and other detritus littering this once-neat, organized area, he began to feel more angry.

His clothes had been ripped out of the closet and strewn across the floor. And...what was that smell? Urine? Had they seriously pissed on his stuff? Who doesthat?

His vision was tinged with green.

He knew this was dangerous territory. His heart was beating too fast and he needed to calm the fuck down. It's just stuff, it's just stuff, it's just stuffhe thought, closing his eyes, breathing deeply and focusing on slowing his pulse.

After a moment, feeling calmer, he opened his eyes.

And noticed the creative graffiti that covered the walls of his living space. The word "vulgar" did not quite begin to encompass the elaborate murals that he was now blessed with. Van Gogh had nothing on the mastery of these artists.

With a growl, unthinking, he whirled and punched the wall-decorated with something that resembled a six-legged penis-as hard as he could. The pain was intense, and there was panic, fuckfuckfuck this is it I'm going to change jesus fucking christ and the Other Guy was shifting under his skin, and then-

There was nothing.

He opened his eyes, expecting to be standing amidst the wreckage of the village, wearing only the shredded remains of his oddly resilient and modesty-maintaining pants. He was indeed standing in wreckage, but it was his hovel, his broken laptop, his pissed-on things. He hadn't blacked out, hadn't moved, had, in fact, only closed his eyes for a moment.

What the hell?

Bruce shook his head, dazed. Had he just gotten immensely lucky, or was something else at play?

He thought about it for a few days, while he cleaned up his hovel and set things back to rights. Eventually, he thought he had it figured out.

When injured, the body releases endorphins. Endorphins are also released during exercise (and orgasm). These chemicals cause feelings of euphoria and exhilaration. The way Bruce figured, by punching the wall and injuring his body, he had caused a release of endorphins, which had in turn created a rush of pleasure that short-circuited the rage and left him feeling calm and...empty.

He thought it was strange. He had been injured before, and it had triggered a transformation, not halted one. But then, many of those incidents had involved him being shot at or otherwise antagonized. Perhaps there was a threshold of panic and rage that endorphins could not overcome? It sort of made sense. Right?

He made a note to himself to test his theory...as soon as he got a new laptop.

Tony was still staring at him, for once at a loss for words.

"So," Bruce finished, "it's a way to deal with things before they get out of control. I can just stop my emotions when I need to, and avoid a lot of the danger. Of course, it's not perfect, and if someone shoots at me I'm still pretty much fucked, but it's helped me out at least as much as all the yoga and meditation I've done over the years."

There was a pause. Then:

"Dr. Banner," Tony began, finally finding his voice, "that is sofucked up."

That was not quite the response Bruce had been expecting.

"No, Tony, it's really not. It's all quite rational, scientific even. The Other Guy needs to stay controlled, and it helps. What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong? What's wrong is that I walked through that door and saw you engaging in some kind of masochistic self-abuse thing." Tony grabbed Bruce's arm and yanked his shirtsleeve up. A large bruise was forming on his arm, just above the wrist bones, where he had a moment ago been banging it against the corner of the lab table. Several other bruises, mostly faded, were visible, going up his arm and disappearing under his shirt. "This is not normal, Bruce. This is self-injury, and you shouldn't be doing this to yourself-"

Bruce cut him off. "Tony, I'm not some 16-year-old with emotional problems. This is just a tool, that's all, and I've got it under control."

Tony quirked an eyebrow. "Just a tool, huh? What do you think it is for the 16-year-olds with emotional problems?"

Bruce found he didn't have a good answer.

There's a possibility for a second chapter to this, but I'm not going to commit to it (since that will guarantee it will never happen...).