A/N
Sorry for the long wait. Uni is busy and real life is hard. Thanks for sticking with me and I promise I won't abandon this story.
Reviews are my motivation so please leave one on your way out. It really means a lot!
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Bruce's head was swimming. His fingers tingled numbly and his skin buzzed electrically. Blood flowed through his veins like molten sugar, burning hot and sickly sweet, hitting his brain as an explosion of euphoria. A white light spread across his body, from brain to heart, fingers and toes. For a few minutes every cell glowed. Soon though the electricity turned down, the light dimmed, and he was left in a state that could best be described as simply, deeply relaxed.

The others had thought that things were improving with Bruce. They had known for a long time that all was not well with their friend, but while the revelation that he was a drug addict was certainly distressing, it seemed that actually knowing the specific problem made it seem more manageable than when they didn't know what they were facing. Knowing the enemy, it became easier to think in terms of strategy, creating a plan of attack and then just doing it. It felt to the group as if by having everything out in the open, it would somehow be better. Bruce would somehow be better.

Unfortunately it didn't work that way.

Ever since being found out, Bruce had been more social than before. Sure, at first he felt too self conscious, too ashamed to want to be around his friends, but after the initial shock, they all just seemed to accept his problems and quickly stopped looking at him like he was some broken thing. He suspected that had more to do with wanting to avoid conflict than anything, but he would take it. Sure, they still urged him to get clean and they didn't exactly dance around the issue, but for the most part they started treating him normally when they realized he wasn't ready to listen to anything they had to say. Since he no longer had to hide, he no longer felt the need to isolate himself so heavily from those he cared about. Everybody seemed to interpret his renewed sociability as a sign that he was getting better. In reality things for Bruce were getting much, much worse.

In the moments that he spent with his friends, talking and laughing, he was often genuinely happy, but that feeling never lasted long. Those moments were the times when he was able to come up for air. As soon as they passed he was dragged back under, deep into the murky ocean of depression. Images would flash in and out of his head. Images of himself with a gun to his head. With a blade to his wrists. A rope around his neck. His mind would wonder and he'd find himself thinking of how he would do it, who would find him, how could he stop the other guy from making an unwanted appearance and forcing him to continue living. Every time he found his thoughts going down that path he would shake his head in horror. It felt as if he had no control over what was happening in his own head. He didn't want to die. He really didn't. He just couldn't stop thinking about it. The urge to hurt himself would often role over him like a tidal wave and every time it was a struggle to fight against it. The fact that he knew he would never be able to successfully go through with it thanks to the other guy was of no comfort. The thing was, those thoughts seemed to vanish when he was high, and so he tried to spend as little time sober as possible.

Bruce was endlessly frustrated. He should have been happy. He should have been content. He had a home. He had people who he loved and who loved him back. He had the facilities he needed to finally use his mind to it's fullest potential. He had everything he had ever dreamed of. For a little while it had seemed to be enough but so quickly he had just started feeling trapped. He felt that maybe if he could reverse the effects of the accident that let him stuck with the other guy then perhaps that would fix everything but all that did was kick-start those old obsessive tendencies and leave him feeling frustrated and inadequate. He honestly didn't even know why he was trying any more. Other than that time on the hellicarrier he hadn't unintentionally hulked out in years, and those were extreme circumstances to say the least. Sure he would never be happy about his condition, after all it had cost him so much, but he had thought he was beyond the point where he would let it destroy him. He had it under control. He didn't feel he really had a valid reason to feel the way he did and that just made him feel so much worse. His sadness wasn't justified and therefore his drug use wasn't justified, meaning a world of guilt for the pain it was causing others. And yet he had no intention of stopping.

After shooting up in his bathroom, once Bruce had recovered enough to stand, he returned to his lab to continue working. He had shelved his most recent attempt at curing himself, unsure whether it was a positive thing or not that he seemed to have lost interest lately even in the thing he had been unhealthily obsessed with. He had lost interest in a lot of things. Mostly he had been doing experiments with no particular end goal and continuing to do work with Tony on various projects. While Bruce had been working, comfortably numb for the time being, Tony had walked in, apparently looking to drag him off for food. Bruce looked at his watch.

"It's 3am. We could probably just wait until breakfast at this point," said Bruce.

"Have you even eaten since I last dragged you out of here for food?" asked Tony.

"Well no, but that wasn't that long ago. I'm not that hungry honestly."

"Buddy, I haven't seen you in almost two days. If you don't come with me to get food now, I'm going to have Dummy hold you down while I force feed you through a tube," threatened Tony, only half joking.

"Two days?" asked Bruce, looking dazed. "Shit. Maybe food is a good idea after all."

"How long has it been since you slept? Last time we saw each other you told me you hadn't slept for days and from the looks of things you've decided to go for a personal best in insomnia. How are you even standing? For the love of Thor, even I take better care of myself then you do and I'm pretty much famous for being a complete fucking mess of a human being."

"I'm pretty sure I hold the world record in being dysfunctional Tony. Even you, competitive as you are, could never quite reach my level," said Bruce with a smile as he walked towards the door. "Come on, lets eat."

The two men walked to the towers shared kitchen. It was empty, which wasn't unexpected. Clint and Natasha had been called back to work several weeks ago, and Steve had started doing missions with SHIELD himself, which had taken him away from the tower. Pepper was out of town on business as she so often was, leaving Tony and Bruce to their devices. Having few people around to drag him out to eat and to socialize, Bruce had barley left his lab for almost two weeks. He ate only when Tony reminded him to, and didn't sleep so much as occasionally pass out on the floor of his lab or bathroom for a few hours here and there. He'd been using with increasing frequency too. Basically, he was a complete mess and Tony was fed up with it. After the two men had heated up some microwave dinners, Tony decided to speak his mind.

"You're barred from your lab for the next week, by the way. I will have JARVIS remind you at regular intervals that you need to get food, and if you don't do so, I will find you myself and, well, you remember what I said about force feeding you. Seriously though, if you don't start sleeping you're on you're way to a full psychotic break."

Bruce looked mildly indignant at being given orders on his health and sleeping patterns by Tony 'barley more self preservation instincts than a lemming' Stark of all people, but didn't try to argue. He knew he was right and he was too out of it to fight Tony on the issue.

"Whatever. I suppose I could use a break," said Bruce, his voice monotone.

"Really? You're not going to fight me on this? No having a tantrum about how you don't need people watching over your shoulder? Where's the indignation? Where's the sarcastic eye rolling? Or are you just too high to give a fuck right now?" seethed Tony, surprising both of them with his sudden burst of anger.

"Can we not do this? Are you really going to fight me for not fighting you?" Bruce asked with a sigh.

"Right. I don't know what came over me. Maybe it has something to do with watching my friend waste away into some pathetic shell of human being who's willing to just do as he's told. Granted, I do so enjoy when people follow my good wisdom without argument, but you of all people should at least be chiding me for showing such arrogance as to give another human advice on healthy living!"

"What do you want from me Tony?"

"I don't fucking know! I want you to fight me? Show me you still care about something? I thought thought I'd have to chain you to a bed to force you to get some rest and stay away from your lab if for no other reason that few people in this world loath being given orders more than you. I've been leaving you be. We've all been leaving you be, hoping that you'd just come around on your own, but that's not going to happen, is it?" asked Tony, all anger turned to sadness by the end of his rant.

Bruce just stared past him, eyes unfocused. He looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but in that kitchen.

"Maybe you should go see a psychiatrist. You're depressed. You know how I despise admitting any sort of defeat, but I don't know how to help you Bruce. None of us do. Not when you don't seem to want to get better. We tried the whole 'just be there for him' schtick and clearly it isn't working."

"I don't think I can open up enough to a stranger for any sort of therapy to be actually successful," said Bruce, eyes staring somewhere above Tony's head.

"And you won't even try? The others haven't been left alone with you like I have. Even in the weeks they've all been gone, things have only deteriorated. I don't think they realize just how far gone you are. You're barley alive any more."

"Yet still far more than I want to be."

Bruce finally met Tony's eyes, seemingly shocked that those words had come out of his mouth. Tony felt his stomach twist sickeningly and in that moment he was so, so tired. Bruce scrubbed is hands against his face and shook his head gently.

"I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. It was stupid," said Bruce shakily. "I just wish that we could all pretend that nothing's wrong. I hate you worrying about me. I wish you would stop."

"Well I think we both know that will never happen. You know why? Because I am of the personal opinion that if somebody is insistent upon destroying themselves then fine, but they have to do it with the full knowledge that everyone who cares about them is watching it happen.
Rhodey told me that when I was in the hospital with alcohol poisoning, was it the second or the third time? I remember I was young. It didn't stop me and I don't expect it to stop you either. Just don't expect us to pretend like nothings wrong. We're not going to do that."

With that Tony stood up and walked out of the room, turning back briefly to look at his mess of a friend.

"Get some fucking sleep."

Bruce barley made it to his bed before collapsing into a 16 hour slumber.