A/N: Hi there. I'm new to fanfiction as a whole, so if I lethally offend anyone for any reason, I'm sorry. I'm not really sure about where this will go. It can and probably will become the prologue of something else I've written that is Tony/Bruce, but that may depend on the feedback I get from this. And yes, I know the-one-in-which-Bruce-tries-to-kill-himself is hardly a revolutionary idea.
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Warnings: Possibly triggering mention of suicidal thoughts/actions, recreational use of narcotics, language.
Bruce should have known this wasn't going to work. He should have planned better, but he didn't know what else he could have done. He didn't know what—between the oxy and the gun— he would have done differently. You could have done it sober, if you hadn't been too scared. Weak, Banner, you're weak. He shivered lightly.
The world was fraying around him, dissolving into something that quivered and shook diamonds into his eyes. He fought weakly to grasp at the edges of reality and pull them back together, stuffing his hands against the holes that were opening in the fabric of his consciousness as he stumbled across the roof of the Stark Tower. Hold it together damnit, fucking hold on to it, find it. He managed to dig his fingernails roughly into an arm, jump starting his eyes back into focus. He picked up the gun, or maybe it had been in his hands the whole time, he wasn't sure. His fingers were shaking as he spun the loaded chamber, but they were shaking the way his whole body was shaking—begging to lapse into unconsciousness—not from fear. He was past fear by this point. Or that was the party line. Don't even know what you're so scared of, not like anything's going to happen anyway. Can't even die right. You're such a fuck up, such a fuck up.
He must have passed out because when he opened his eyes to the heavy brush of crumbling asphalt against his jaw, he was on the ground. The gun and his right arm were pinned underneath him and he fought down a wave of nausea while idly realizing his arm should hurt. Find it. Come on Bruce. Come on. He managed to roll onto his back, eyes refusing to close anymore—or, he thought they were open, at least—vision catching, smearing into a blur of colors like the open aperture of a camera trying to make sense of city lights at night. He pushed hard against the ground, levering himself into a sitting position, trying to remember where he had decided to shoot. Damnit. Head? No, too messy. Mouth? Already tried that. Heart, he finally decided. Heart could work. Hopefully The Other Guy didn't pull him back from the edge again. He didn't know how he would explain this to Tony if it didn't work again. He didn't know—Enough, he snarled at himself. You cannot. Cannot have him. Deal with it. Go. He fought to locate the gun, his heart. He doubted he had his eyes open anymore, and he couldn't feel any part of his body either, all sensation replaced with a miasma of icy hot stars, clogging his throat.
Somehow, he managed to register the thrust of the barrel against his chest, knew the .357 was ready to spit its seed straight into his heart, blasting its way through his ribcage, shredding his pericardium. He just knew. He swallowed the ice of the December night, New York photochemical air lighting up his alveoli and started counting down, voice slurred. He could feel his heartbeat slowing under the base of narcotics, in time with his sipping inhalations. See? You want this. You're already halfway there. He fought to find his voice, wanted the air to hear him.
"Three," he breathed in, deep against the narcotic haze of CNS depression.
"Two," the air in his lungs was abruptly gone as he clicked the safety off.
One, and then nothing.