Hey there, long time no write, right? Sorry about that.

As an attempt to maybe get back into writing, I've decided to do a re-write of Just a Tool. Which this is. It's going to be very similar to the original Just a Tool, which will still be available to read, but hopefully with better writing. There are several issues in terms of characterization and dialogue I'd like to address. The plot will stay more or less the same, with probably a few minor tweaks.

I'm grateful to my beta, bequirk, who wasn't around when I originally published the first few chapters of this in 2012.

All of the warnings from the original still stand; those are generally self-harm and suicidal ideation of varying degrees. Chapter specific warnings will be listed for each chapter.

All that said, please enjoy.

Warnings: self-harm.

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

Generally, the possibility didn't register in his mind because he wouldn't let it. After Betty, after all he'd lost...he didn't want to feel that again. Ever.

Living alone, first in Canada, then in southeast Asia, his existence had been a selfish one, at least at first, before he'd become entwined in village life, working for his keep. His only concern back then had been his own survival, and as he had found during his foray into the arctic, he was a survivor, his own will be damned.

The solitude was oppressive and, at times, suffocating, but it was also freeing in a way. It was easier not having to think about how his actions would affect the people around him. He was the only person concerned with what he did, and that was the way of things.

This freed him to focus all his energy on not becoming a giant green catastrophe, a walking disaster.

Avoiding the Other Guy was ever present in his mind, so he couldn't call himself completely selfish. His first concern was and would always be protecting the people around him. That was the macro level. On a micro level, though, he was selfish. After being so alone for so long, he just didn't think about other people anymore. They didn't register. If he wasn't endangering them, they didn't matter.

At all.

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

But then an indignant "What the hell are you doing?" stopped him.

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

"Tony, I can explain this," Bruce said, his voice even, balanced. Detached.

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

Bruce considered that, head cocked slightly to one side. He supposed yes, 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 coughed, an exaggerated "ahem," and when Bruce looked up, he saw Tony had raised a skeptical eyebrow. It contrasted sharply with his worried frown. The overall effect was one of conflicted concern.

Bruce realized he hadn't started speaking yet. Now seemed like a good time to remedy that.

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

It was something he'd discovered after he'd broken Harlem, after he'd left Canada for a more...tropical climate.

Hey, when you're basically homeless, it's better to be somewhere warm, right?

Anyway, he'd returned from working at his current menial job in his present equatorial 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. It lay in pieces on the floor. Shit. That laptop had contained all of his notes and research on his condition, everything he'd compiled since the accident—at least as much of it as he'd managed to retain on the run. 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 and barely made enough to feed himself. How on earth could he afford a new one?

He began to feel angry.

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

Further perusal revealed that his few clothes had been ripped out of the closet and strewn across the floor. And...what was that smell? Urine? Had they seriously urinated on his stuff?

Who does that?

Bruce's vision had been suddenly tinged with green.

He'd known that was dangerous territory. His heart had been beating too fast—the heart monitor he'd still been wearing on his wrist at that point was beeping—and he'd needed to calm down.

It's just stuff, it's just stuff, it's just stuff. Bruce had closed his eyes, breathing deeply and focusing on slowing his pulse.

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

And noticed, now that he was calmer, 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 had found himself blessed with. Van Gogh had nothing on the mastery of these artists.

With a growl, unthinking, he'd 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.

oh god oh god oh god this is it I'm going to change jesus christ

The wrist heart monitor had beeped frantically, shrilly, the sound piercing through Bruce's brain, and the Other Guy had been shifting under his skin, and then—

Then there was nothing.

Silence.

Bruce had opened his eyes slowly, fully expecting to be standing amidst the wreckage of the village, wearing only the shredded remains of his oddly resilient and modesty-maintaining pants

But...while he had been standing in wreckage, it had been his hovel, his broken laptop, his urine-soaked belongings. He hadn't blacked out, hadn't moved, had, in fact, only closed his eyes for a moment.

What the hell?

Bruce had shook his head, dazed.

Was I lucky? What...?

He had no idea. But he wasn't going to take it for granted. Neither was he going to let it go unexplained.

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

It hadn't been luck. It had been biology, plain and simple.

When injured, the body, primarily the pituitary gland, releases endorphins, a class of chemicals that 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.

That didn't add up, though. Bruce 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. Maybe there was a threshold of panic and rage that endorphins couldn't overcome? It sort of made sense. Right?

Whether or not it did, it was all he had for an explanation.

He'd 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 silent.

"So," Bruce finished his recitation, "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 screwed, 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 roughly, clearing his throat, "That's screwed up."

That was not quite the response Bruce had been expecting. He sighed internally, mentally running through his spiel, trying to think of where he had been unclear. He decided, after going over it, it hadn't been him; Tony was just being slow. Deliberately, he said, "No, Tony, it's really not. It's pretty rational. Scientific even. The Other Guy needs to stay controlled, and it helps me do that. What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong?" Tony's voice was going up in pitch rather dramatically. "What's wrong is that I walked through that door and saw you engaging in some kind of masochistic self-abuse thing." Then he grabbed Bruce's arm and yanked his shirt sleeve up.

Bruce, unaccustomed to being manhandled (or touched at all, really), froze.

The two of them looked down at the exposed arm.

A large bruise was forming, just above the wrist bones, where Bruce 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." Tony said emphatically, his voice back down to its normal pitch. "This is self-injury, and you shouldn't be doing this to yourself—"

Bruce yanked his arm back, pushing his sleeve down. He shook his head, almost condescendingly. "Tony, I'm not some 16-year-old with emotional problems. This is just a tool, that's all. I've got it under control."

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

Bruce opened his mouth to reply, but found he didn't have a good answer.

He closed his mouth and frowned.

Thanks for reading! I'm not going to make promises in terms of an update schedule since I'm pretty unreliable.