He's ripping.
Natasha is trapped under rubble, and Bruce Banner is ripping.
The barely contained monster snaps at her false promises, her pointless reassurances.
Who is she, to promise he would not be caged?
All it would take is a single slip for her to wind up caged beside him.
But her monster can be controlled. Her monster does not flow through her veins and rip her skin and crack her bones.
Her monster does not remake her. She remade it.
But that doesn't help the monster beside her. Childish platitudes and false prayers for things beyond her control do not satisfy this monster.
So, Bruce Banner is ripping.
And the thing beneath his seams rears it's head, turns on her with laughter.
Your life?
As if her life is worth something. As if her life means anything to this green beast sprouting beside her.
As if Bruce Banner thinks his life is anywhere near hers in worth.
The monster groans, and looks at her with such unspeakable agony. It knows. He knows. Because looking at her is not a monster, but the simplistic green eyes of a lost Bruce Banner. A drowning man in a devil's body.
Then, he is lost. Lost to the anger and the fear and the fire that burns his skin. Lost to the pain of being remade. Lost to her.
And now, for the first time in fifteen years;
Natasha knows what it is to be powerless.