I wrote this real quick one night. I hope you enjoy it. I love delving into Bruce Banner's psyche. Also, if you want the story to end here, just stop reading. If you want more to happen, read the next chapter. I can understand both choices. If you're curious, just read more, who's stopping you? You can pretend the next part doesn't exist if you don't want it to.
All mistakes are my own, I don't have a beta. I also did my own research on guns and revolvers and petrol and everything, so any misinformation is also my bad. Also, I don't own anything.
Trigger warnings: Bruce is suicidal. Tread carefully or don't read if you have issues with this.
'So, without further gilding the lily and with no more ado, I give to you,' the story!
Bruce contemplated the weight of the revolver in his hand.
Dr. Robert Bruce Banner was a man of science. He understands the concept of insanity, and therefore doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results would be absolutely absurd. He knows he can't just stick the revolver back into his mouth and fire, because he already tried that, and the Other Guy had caught the bullet with his tongue and spat it onto the floor. He then moved on to tear his small home apart, leaving Bruce naked and alone in rebuilding his home.
He knew that firing into his mouth would cause pain, because it happened the last time. It was like catching an explosion in your mouth, swallowing petrol and a match at once just to feel the pain of something real. But the bullet never would reach his brain, and that was his desired outcome. He needed the bullet to pierce his brain so he could just finally die.
He thought of his team, and how they may need him in the future. He thought of Tony Stark, somewhere downstairs in the lab, working on a project he had to finish in a few days. Bruce scooted forward on his bed so he no longer was lying against the pillows, crossing his legs in front of him. He pushed all thoughts of other people from his mind, knowing that any ways he could've helped while alive are far outweighed by how much good will come to them when he is finally dead. He couldn't afford to think of anybody right now, because these were the people he was doing this for.
Bruce checked the chamber a third time, just to make sure every slot had a bullet in it. He wasn't taking any chances here, he wasn't messing around. He needed this to happen, now. Everything had been building and building, the faces of everyone he had ever hurt, ever killed, played in his mind on a constant loop. The crushing weight of the Other Guy inside him was slowing killing him, and he needed to end this pain. If the only way to end his own pain and stop the destruction and madness that lived because of him was to kill himself, and therefore murdering the Other Guy, than so be it.
He had done his research and even practiced on a close target at a firing range. He knew he only had one shot before either Tony came upstairs or the Other Guy came out - or both at the same time, which he was extremely fearful of. He glanced up at the lock on the door, making sure it was still in the locked position. At least he could delay Tony slightly before the genius got JARVIS to open the door for him. He gripped the pistol exactly as he had learned, taking a deep breath and placing the muzzle of the double-action revolver against his skull, right above his ear.
He hoped that keeping the bullet in a place where the Other Guy couldn't really push it out would give him a better chance of dying before the Other Guy even got a chance to show up. Ruining his brain and blowing out his skull was his best plan; otherwise, he still had his electrocution idea. His heart was pounding with adrenaline, but he wasn't nervous, and he certainly wasn't scared. No, he was more worried that it wouldn't work and he'd have to live even longer. He'd have to keep living, trapped in the body, with the miseries and tragedies that were constantly weighing him down like cinder blocks tied to his ankles.
Bruce noticed that his breathing was shaky, a natural defense of his body, trying to tell him that his body knew what he was going to do and was trying to warn him not to. He took three steadying breaths, but they, too, were shaky; he gave up on that quickly. If he learned one thing from yoga, it was that it didn't help him as much as he'd like. He shut his eyes tightly and gripped the revolver as firm as his sweating hand would allow.
He remembered his training. He took a breath and held it, remembering that he was to let out half the breath and then slowly pull the trigger. He knew the sound of the revolver firing would probably startle him, so he steeled himself for the bang and the pain. He let out his half of a breath and pulled the trigger down, at an achingly slow, constant speed. The bang made him jump slightly, but he could feel the bite of the bullet biting into his skin.
Bruce had never felt anything more lovely. His heart was racing, threatening to beat faster and harder and break through his ribs, and he challenged it to do so. The bullet easily pierced his skull, given great momentum through his head at such close range. It tore through layers of muscle within his brain, giving him the feel of a horrific fire slicing through each thought he'd ever had. He loved every moment of it, and he felt himself let out a half-laugh, half-shout that mingled with the roar of the Hulk.