A/N: So, this is probably the most overused topic for an Avengers fic, but I've never really claimed to be original or anything, so. It's probably not perfect either, but it is very important for me. It started out as a songfic for Woodkid's Iron, and it still can be useful to listen to it (it's awesome).

There's also a sort of a companion-chapter to this one, which is almost finished, and I'll post it in a day or two.

That said, I hope you like it, and it would be really great if you left a review and told me what you think.

Arctic Circle, 2008

This time it was going to work.

It had to, because the alternative was just too (crushing) improbable.

Bruce Banner said a quick goodbye to the man who's given him a ride and walked off the road and into the woods. Not even a hundred feet later the land began to rise, and in a five minutes he's found himself climbing the steep flank of a mountain.

The cold sun shone painfully bright in the sky, and the snow felt sharp and hard under his feet.

There were no sounds in the air save for the rushing of the wind, but he still heard it. The drums and the shots. He knew that they were there, that he just had to close his eyes for a second to see the bullets flying at his face.

They were the reason, the final straw. In the beginning, when he still thought he could be saved, he tried to talk things out with the General, because, surely, the man was interested in ending the menace of the monster, and so, surely, he would help Bruce to find a cure… But after what the General said, what they did (don't , just don't think about it) to him, after all the iron and the fire and the acid, after he started seeing the bullets every goddamned time he closed his eyes and realized that he would have to run and hide to the end of his days…

That's when he had first decided to die.

The drums droned fast and low in his ears as he climbed. Ah, no, that was just his heart pounding against his ribcage with wild abandon, nothing new. He thought resignedly that there was a time (two years ago, just two fucking years) when he didn't even notice his heartbeat unless thinking about it on purpose, when this rhythm wasn't a steady background of his thoughts.

He tried to remember what it felt like to have Betty's gentle fingers on his pulse points – on his wrists, his neck, pressed to his chest. He found that he couldn't.

He had to stop doing this to himself. Remembering Betty was… painful. Not as painful as having all your muscles stretch and twist and expand, all your bones to break and re-knit themselves, all your blood boil and sizzle and burn you from the inside in a fit of irradiated frenzy, but still… it still hurt.

It made him feel (disgustingly) helpless, and helplessness, in turn, always brought anger. It never ended well, for anyone.

He recalled, not without regret, his younger days. He was constantly angry back then, always on edge, and on the worst days, when people were just too (insufferable) complicated and life – too hard, he thought of a bottle of sleep pills in the cabinet behind the mirror, or the kitchen knives, or simply of diving off some random cliff… After some consideration though, he always deemed it too stupid and cowardly (oh, you liked to pretend you were a brave little hero, now didn't you).

He loathed his… integrity now. He would've given everything up (wake up, Banner, you have nothing) just for a chance to go back to those bleak, rage-filled days. He would have done everything right then. He would have stopped it all before it even began.

He wanted to go back to the times when things still worked.

He always liked poetry, especially the classics. Shakespeare, Shelley, Byron. And yet, there would not be a single soul found who'd dare to call him a romantic, god forbid, "romanticize" and him were never in the same room. That's why, when he was doing this, it wasn't to be "free at last," to "end this torment" or to "rid the world of this menace, even at the cost of my own life."

The truth was that he was, in fact, a coward (wretched little wimp). He was tired, sick and wanted out.

He has considered a possibility of having a depression, and that he probably wasn't thinking clearly. That the crushing exhaustion that's accompanied him for the bigger part of his life was maybe a symptom of some bigger disorder. But then again, maybe it was just whining of a weak little child who can't handle his responsibilities (cut the whimpering, you little monster, or I'll give you something to cry about). That definitely sounded more (broken) realistic.

And well, maybe it all was a little alarming, and maybe someone should've been concerned about it, but no one was. No one ever cared, except Betty, but he hid it from her like he hid everything from pretty much everyone…

"…that you never saw him abuse your mother? She is dead because of him! Why are you lying!?"

…because lying was in his blood.

He stopped for a moment and looked around. The forest behind him was barely visible now, and not just because of the blizzard. Still, he had to go higher up, farther away.

Objectively, he knew that the wind was of tremendous power, that its force and temperature were damaging the skin of his face and fingers, that his clothes offered little protection against the cold, and that frostbite was a matter of minutes. Subjectively though, he barely felt it all as he plowed through the snow and the ice.

He was already numb when he came here, after all.

It wasn't always like this. He actually felt nervous during his first time (look, Betty, an innuendo! Aren't you proud of me?). The first time he gave up. It passed soon enough, the next (one, two… four… five…) tries were much easier, and thinking about them didn't bring anxiety or doubts. Drugs (stupid, expensive, unreliable), poisons (should have known better), razor (too long), rope, falling…

It all formed a neat little algorithm in his head: try a cure – fail – move on – try a way out – fail – do damage control – move on – rinse, repeat, stay on the move.

He was quickly running out of options on both fronts though, and that's exactly when those assholes tried to have themselves a good time at his expense.

He didn't even remember why they started that fight. The bar was already too loud, too bright and crowded, and he shouldn't have come there in the first place, but that didn't matter, because what mattered in the end was that they nicked him and he (rather pathetically) lost it.

He also didn't remember what happened after that (how many you killed). He woke up in another state altogether, without any hope of regaining his meager belongings, and with mouth full of blood.

That brought back memories. Childhood mostly. Darkness, yells (come out, come out, Brucie-boy, where-the-hell-ever you are), then lights, quick and sharp, then a smack, a dull bang, tiny milk teeth on the floor and the bitter coppery taste in his mouth.

Come out with a bang, yeah, it sounded just right.

It was also the most reliable choice, really, one he should've started with. After all, that other guy was such a good survivor because, whatever happened, he managed to adapt, and adapt quickly. But no-one was quicker than a bullet, especially when a barrel was pressed against your palate.

It had to work, there were no doubts about it, but still the precautions had to be taken. If, no matter how negligible a chance of that was, the monster managed to survive yet again… it needed to happen somewhere remote and uninhabited so as to minimize the potential damage to the lives and property.

And that's why you're now freezing your back off climbing this mountain, Banner. You sure the gun was even necessary?

Yeah, it was. It cost quite a sum though, along with the clothes, the gear and the road. The money were a problem at first, but not after he stumbled on a casino one night, only to discover the simple mechanics of blackjack and the elegant, mind-soothing mathematics of the "art" of card counting. He supposed it was considered cheating, but that didn't really bother him. He had often waked up naked in strange places, with no memory of just how he had gotten himself there. He had roamed through garbage for food and begged for money on the streets, he lied, stole and killed.

He was so full of shame there was barely place for any more.

He did feel a little embarrassed though, that the idea itself – just like everything good in his life – came from Betty. Well, not her exactly, but the movie she made him watch (made… she had to practically coerce you to do something so normal and mundane, you fucking freak).

It was actually one of the two movies they watched together (Two. And you've dated her for almost three years, Banner. Way to fucking go). The other one – a musical, of all things, – they watched on her birthday. There was that song there, it started slowly, softly, almost in whisper (oh yes oh yes oh yes we both), then picked up the pace (oh yes we both oh yes we both reached for) and then swirled away, like a blizzard, piercing and loud (the gun the gun the gun the gun oh yes we both reached for the gun for the gun).

It bore into his memory. He couldn't help but think that this little verse came to describe all of his life, what it's been reduced to. The gun was his life, his sanity, and they – both he and that other guy – struggled for it constantly, tugging, pulling and tearing away, snarling and clawing as the music became faster and faster, voices – high-pitched and moves – frantic and desperate, words jumbling together in panic. In the cold and dark place that was Bruce Banner's mind that song was on permanent loop as the man and the monster lunged at each other relentlessly, again and again, fighting for control.

And Bruce was slowly and inevitably losing, because (and everyone knew it) he wasn't a fighter. He didn't take stands, he didn't confront. People were beating him up all his life, and he took it all (like a man, Brucie-boy), but never fought back.

Violence only perpetuates violence, and it never actually accomplishes anything.

So he excluded it out of his life, just like many other similar things. Caffeine was a stimulant, alcohol – a depressant, and emotions in general never got you anywhere bot trouble. So, just like that, he rejected them, swept them away and was left hollow.

Cold.

It got colder the higher he climbed. Finally he reached a plateau and stopped, looking around once again. The place looked good. High, distant, lonely…

…boundless and bare, the lone and level sands stretch far away.

Classics, he chuckled darkly to himself.

That was it. He was reaching his final destination at a critical speed, and there was only one ritual left before the end: Bruce had mentally counted all his sins, said his goodbyes and his sorrys.

He reached for the gun (the gun the gun the gun) in his pocket. No need to stall.

He stirs, he protests, he will try to stop you.

No. It was going to work. Everything was going to be fine (right?), he was not going to fail this time (every time, again and again), everything was going to be all right.

The metal was warm and tasted slightly bitter. His hands were steady.

It was going to work. The bullet would pierce his skull in a matter of milliseconds, clean and fast, right through the brain (oh, your big cursed brain). Instant, painless death.

He closed his eyes and took his last breath. Just before pulling the trigger, he tried to recall Betty's face and what her eyes looked like. He found that he couldn't.

Remember, Mom, you wanted me to be a doctor when I grow up?

Now look what I have become instead.

.

Bang