Thanks as always to my beta, bequirk.

Warnings: self-injury, references to past self-injury.

Days after his late-night chat with Bruce, Tony had been abruptly awakened at 1:13 AM by his own fast-paced heartbeat and gasping breath, his memory haunted by a vague yet persistent memory of falling.

Panic attack.

Again.

Damn it.

As always when this happened, the first thing Tony had done was make sure that Pepper was still asleep. She was, lying next to him, one leg thrown haphazardly out from under the covers, one arm shoved under her pillow.

Breathing a small sigh of relief, Tony had delicately extricated himself from the bed and padded as quietly as he could out of the room. Being a walking night light sometimes made it hard to sneak around in the dark, but he managed to escape without waking Pepper.

The less she had to know about this crap, the better.

Normally, after one of his late-night 'incidents,' Tony would have popped down to his workshop to tinker. At the moment, however, he had a different distraction. He'd grabbed a glass of scotch and plopped down in front of his computer, no concrete objective in mind, but had quickly found himself reading an article about the incidence of self-injury in adults.

When he'd finished reading, with a flourish he added the link to the email he was going to send Bruce.

It was an impressive and ever-growing missive.

It wasn't so much that Tony worried Bruce was going to maim himself. Well, he was worried about that, of course. He was more worried, though, by the apparent lack of concern Bruce felt for his own well-being. His indifference to harming his body wasn't normal. 'Just bruises,' he had said, as if the fact he was quite literally beating himself up didn't matter in the least. Most people cared when they got hurt. Most people wanted to avoid it.

Of course, this was coming from someone who had willingly flown a nuclear weapon into a space portal. Tony could see the hypocrisy that had irritated Bruce so badly; he wasn't entirely lacking in self-awareness. But Tony Stark never let a small thing like hypocrisy stand in his way.

His ruminating was interrupted a moment later by JARVIS.

"Director Fury is on the phone, sir. He seems quite urgent. Shall I patch him through?"

Tony frowned. The last time SHIELD had wantedto reach him, the whole world had been at stake. It was probably for the best not to ignore him. Trying to disregard the thread of irritation (or was it lingering panic?) in his chest, Tony answered, "Fine. Whatever." No need to seem too eager. Too accommodating.

"Stark," came Fury's voice a moment later, "There's an...'incident' in progress a few hours outside of the city. We're going to need you to come in."

The word 'incident' raised Tony's metaphorical hackles. He didn't associate it with anything good. He'd already had one 'incident' tonight. And hadn't they had enough of this kind of shit, the hush-hush, SHIELD weirdness? They were fresh from an alien invasion and he, well. He wasn't ready for round two of SHIELD weirdness. He prodded, "An incident?"

"Yes, Stark, an incident."

Fury's vagueness grated. Sharply, now, Tony said, "Oh, I'm sure you and your fine agents can handle it, darling. I'm busy." If Fury was going to play with him, he was going to play with Fury.

Fury ignored him, acting as if he hadn't spoken at all.

"Romanoff will be there to pick you up in ten minutes. Bring Banner with you; we need him, and he's not answering his goddamn phone."

"Wait, why can't I just fly—" the line went dead.

Someone, Tony thought, had to talk to that man about phone etiquette.

He thought Natasha (apparently back from her mission doing god-knows-what) might actually kill him.

Instead of using the ten minutes he'd been given to prepare, Tony had instead leisurely finished drinking his scotch while checking on his Smurf village—damn that game was addictive—and updating his e-mail to Bruce. Thus, when she arrived, pounding on the door to the lab, he was not ready to do anything, let alone face an 'incident.'

At 2:45 in the morning, he doubted very much that Bruce was awake and ready to go. Or that he would particularly want to participate in this little endeavor. Tony, frankly, didn't want to participate—he didn't know what he was getting into, he didn't know why they needed Bruce, didn't know what kind of 'incident' this was going to be. All he knew was that none of it boded well.

But nothing boded as poorly as the furious redhead tapping her foot outside Tony's lab.

Furious redheads were always bad news.

So with a grimace, Tony had opened the door to the lab and metaphorically patted Natasha on the head (he still wouldn't dare to actually touch her) and led her to a couch, telling her to sit tight while he roused Bruce.

Unfortunately, when Tony asked JARVIS to send Bruce up, JARVIS replied that Bruce was working in his lab and had put him on 'silent mode.'

Which meant Tony would have to go get Bruce himself.

Which would take more time.

Natasha's frown had only deepened at that.

And thus, as he headed towards the elevator, Tony had half-expected Natasha to shoot him, or maybe start throwing knives. He resisted looking back over his shoulder.

Barely.

Tony, once on the elevator, counted his blessings that Bruce was, at least, awake. If everything went okay from here, Natasha might not shoot him at all. Not even a little bit.

Whistling a small tune to celebrate his newfound good fortune, he pushed open the door to the lab.

"Hey, Bruce, Natasha's here, and Fury says we—"

The greeting died in his throat as he crossed the threshold just in time to witness Bruce slamming his fist viciously into the metal workbench next to his computer.

Bruce, for his part, jumped about a foot in the air at Tony's intrusion, clutching his hand to his chest, his expression tight and closed off. "Tony!"

"Bruce!" Tony replied, raising his eyebrows and mimicking Bruce's tone, more out of habit than any real thought.

Bruce's reply was a wary glare.

Tony met his eyes for a moment and then glanced down at the fist Bruce still had hugged to his chest. It looked terrible already, swelling and turning colors.

Bruce responded by lowering his arms to his sides, though his posture remained stiff.

Ugh. They didn't have time for this right now. Tony's mind wandered to Natasha, alone and angry in his lab. He could address this 'incident' with Bruce later; after all, he had an email in his drafts that was aching to be sent. The other incident couldn't wait.

Looked like today was just going to be one damn incident after another.

"Come on, Banner, duty calls," Tony said, lifting his eyes back up to Bruce's face.

Bruce frowned, then made a fist and then flexed his hand. There was an audible crunch.

Tony's stomach turned, partly out of sympathy, partly because that was gross.

"What's up?" Bruce asked, as if anything about this was normal. He seemed mostly normal, at the very least; his tone was normal, his expression relaxed, now, perhaps even...flat.

An abrupt change from a few seconds ago.

"No idea," Tony answered honestly, "But Fury called, and now Natasha's downstairs, and she's pissed that you're keeping her waiting."

Visibly paling, Bruce hastily saved whatever he'd been working on and hopped up. "I need to stop in my room, I left my phone. And shoes. I need shoes. Oh screw it, shoes are probably a waste anyway. Let's go. I don't need my phone either."

Tony tried not to laugh. "Bruce, it's okay. She's not angry with you, she's angry with me because I'm keeping her waiting. You're way too...nice...and...awkward for her to get angry at, she didn't even mind when you nearly killed her."

Bruce made a half-hearted attempt at a scowl. "That's not funny."

"Wasn't trying to be funny," Tony answered. "Come on, let's go."

Once Bruce and Tony had made it back to the lab, Natasha wasted no time in dragging them down to the garage. In the car, she navigated the city streets like a native New Yorker. Soon they were heading north, away from the city lights.

In silence.

After an hour of what he felt was increasingly awkward quietude, Tony decided it was time to figure out what the hell was going on.

"So, 'Tasha," he said, saccharine sweet, "Where are we going?"

Her phone rang.

Completely ignoring Tony, she answered it, pulling it out of her pocket instead of letting the car's Bluetooth answer for her.

"This is Romanoff." A pause. "Yeah. Yes, sir. Yeah, Banner's here." Then. "Yes, sir. We're a few minutes out. Okay. Okay. Yes, sir."

She ended the call, tossing her phone one-handed onto the center console. Not looking away from the windshield, she spoke brusquely, "Okay, here's what going on. We've got a bit of a mutant problem."

A mutant problem in New York? Tony didn't think that was exactly...newsworthy.

As if reading Tony's mind, Natasha continued, "And it's not what you think. Something...crashed in the state forest. We're pretty sure it's of extraterrestrial origin. It's emitting high levels of radiation, but we're not sure what kind. It's mutating the wildlife, apparently including the trees, and it's all now spontaneously combusting. Including the animals, I mean." She paused as if waiting to be interrupted. When no disruption came—Tony thought this was way too interesting to interrupt and Bruce had probably never interrupted anyone in his life—she went on, "Our mission is as follows: we need to sample the object, contain the radiation, and stop the fire. With Rogers on a mission in Europe, it's going to mostly be the two of you. Stark, you're on forest fire duty. There's a town a couple of miles from here, and we'd prefer if it didn't burn to the ground." She smirked. "It would be bad PR."

She paused again, then went on with the specifics when no one had any questions. "Banner, we need you to sample the object. And then contain it. From what we've determined, it's only about the size of a basketball, which means it's pumping out a huge amount of energy to do all this damage."

Tony glanced back at Bruce, who looked markedly unhappy. Still, he said, "And you figure it won't kill me? Or...you think it won't kill the Other Guy."

It wasn't a question.

Natasha nodded. "Your physiology makes you immune to radiation." Then, frankly, she added, "And your rapid healing as the Hulk makes you pretty damn hard to kill."

Bruce gave a half-snort, half disbelieving huff. "Well, this is a great idea and all, but the Other Guy's not really...capable...of running scientific tests. Or taking samples. Or containing things." More thoughtfully, he added, "He mostly just...smashes."

In the front seat, Tony rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Bruce," he said. "That's not true—you saved my life as the Hulk, and didn't 'smash' me at all." He glanced behind him, trying to meet Bruce's gaze in the gloom. "I think you have more control than you give yourself credit for."

"Look," Natasha interjected. "We thought of that. We have an instrument that'll do all the work if you get reasonably close to the object. All you need to do is carry it." With that, she turned onto a side road. A few miles up, flashing lights were visible, and Tony got his first glimpse of the forest fire he was about to try to contain. It was massive, flames licking up through the tree limbs, smoke billowing into the dark night sky.

"As for containment," Natasha went on, evidently indifferent to the disaster they were driving towards, "We've got a receptacle for it. Just get it inside the container, and Tony can make sure it gets back to headquarters."

Before Tony could object to being responsible for the fate of this strange, radioactive object, Bruce ground out, "I should make you two sign waivers so I can't be held responsible when you both end up as...as...human goo puddles or something. This is a terrible plan. Is this really the best SHIELD could do?"

Tony reached back from the front seat and clapped him on the shoulder. "That's the spirit, Bruce."

When they arrived at the scene, Tony had wasted no time in getting to work. He'd "slipped" into his suit—which he'd carried with him in its briefcase—as much as anyone could "slip" into something stiff and metallic. He'd made a few adjustments, checked his UI one last time, and muttered something indistinguishable about 'incidents.' Then, he'd loudly blurted out, "But I guess I've got chipmunks or some shit to save. See you guys later."

And with that, he'd flown away.

That left Bruce standing next to the car with Natasha.

Before the pair had needed to engage in conversation, Clint—also apparently called in for this mission—walked over from where he'd been consulting with the DNR. From what Bruce could tell, Clint had been previously picking off the mutated wildlife as it ran from the flames. Probably for best, as the animals were, as Natasha had said, spontaneously combusting. And...strange looking.

"What's up?" Clint said, addressing Natasha. "Too bad all this stuff is mutated, 'cause I wouldn't mind having venison for dinner. Or rabbit. Or maybe chipmunk."

She punched his arm. Clint punched her arm back and then casually threw an arm around her shoulders. Then, to Bruce, he said abruptly, "What the hell happened to your hand?"

Bruce had been attempting to fade into the background and was not expecting to be addressed. As such, he had no real response. "Uh...what?"

Well, that certainly demonstrated the famous genius of Dr. Bruce Banner. Nicely done, Banner, he thought to himself. Using that mind to its full capabilities.

"Your hand," Clint repeated as Natasha shrugged his arm off her shoulder. Then, before Bruce could reply, Clint whipped around and fired a shot at some flaming...thing, stopping it in its tracks. He turned back to Bruce and Natasha like nothing had happened. "Man, this sucks. Your hand, Banner. It looks broken. What happened?"

Natasha, quick as lightning, grabbed Bruce's arm in a vice-like grip and looked down at his hand. Even in the rather shoddy lighting, it looked bad; bruised black and blue, with the second, third, and fourth knuckles lost under swelling. "Jesus, Bruce, what the hell?"

If Tony's reaction to his stress relief method was anything to go by, Bruce figured that now was not the time for honesty. "I, uh, fell."

That was lame. Even he knew it.

"Really?" asked Clint, blunt and pointed. "And what did you punch on the way down? 'Cause that's a boxer's fracture if I ever saw one."

Bruce frowned and hunched in on himself, yanking his arm back to his side. Damn these assassins, did they have to be so observant?

Well, yeah, he supposed they kind of did. It was inconvenient, though. At least, it was right now.

Bruce was saved from answering by what he thought had at one point been a bobcat before it had apparently gotten a large dose of alien radiation. Normally, bobcats came in at about 20 pounds. This creature was at least six or seven times larger, with a rabid look to it that Bruce didn't like at all. Snarling and drooling, it plowed through a group of assembled firefighters and random spectators who'd come out to watch the disaster unfold.

What the hell? This is straight out of some 1970s comic book. Can any kind of radiation even do that?

"Well, fuck," said Clint aptly, and sprinted off to set up a shot.

"Okay," said Natasha, calm and unfazed as always. "We need to get a lid on this. That thing was…disturbing." She walked around behind the car and opened the trunk of the car and pulled out what looked like a large-ish lead box.

"What's that?" Bruce asked.

"A lead box," she replied, the 'duh' left unsaid but strongly implied. "With a few other things built in. It should be able to contain the radiation. If it doesn't, I guess we'll all turn into mutated freaks. Or die. Probably both." She shrugged, and then looked at him expectantly.

Bruce realized she was waiting for him to transform.

"You should...take cover, or something," he said. waving vaguely towards a nearby stand of trees.

Natasha didn't move, instead giving Bruce a bored look.

Bruce sighed. And Tony thought he was self-destructive.

Well, it was what it was. This thing needed to get done before anyone got hurt. Cautiously, Bruce reached inside himself to find the pool of ever-present rage that burned deep within his mind. He had tapped into that pool when Loki had attacked Manhattan, transforming at will. It had been easy enough then. The rage had been barely contained, straining for release, like molten rock inside a volcano. His anger, carefully contained and carefully cultivated, ready to become a weapon, waiting only for him to let it free.

He had learned that in Canada, had learned to contain it. It had taken Manhattan to show him that he could harness it.

It had taken the Helicarrier to show that he was still dangerous.

With growing unease, Bruce closed his eyes, relaxed his rigid control, and let the wave crash over him.

Except.

There was no wave. There was no anger, no rage. Just mild panic and the constant throb of pain running from his fingertips to his elbow.

What the hell?

Bruce took a deep breath and looked inside again. And was again met with a blank, quiet space.

There was a shriek, echoed by a series of gunshots. Bruce's eyes snapped open. His internal world might have been quiet and peaceful, but the external world was going to hell. The mutant wildlife situation was becoming a serious hazard. What had only been the occasional mutated animal running out of the forest had become a constant, violent stream. There were too many for Clint to take, and none of the other gun-wielding people standing about were having any luck hitting anything in the awful flickering light. Especially something like a 20 lb, rabid squirrel. And a pack of those had just emerged from the flames.

This is getting ridiculous, Bruce thought,detached. Rational.

Calm.

"Sometime this week, Bruce!" Natasha snapped, her calm facade cracking slightly.

Bruce could feel his heart rate climbing, but it wasn't fast enough. He just wasn't...feeling...enough.

That alone should have caused him to panic, but it wasn't.

All he could focus on, he found, was the pain shooting up his arm from his hand.

Wait.

Pain. It was keeping him grounded. Focused. But he needed the rage right now. Or panic. Or fear, or something, anything. More pain would do it. There was a threshold! Right?

He closed his eyes and then clenched his fist as hard as he could. He felt the bones shift and crunch, and the pain was enormous.

He saw a flash of green, but it quickly faded with the endorphin rush.

Damn it!

"What the hell, Bruce!" Natasha yelled, her composure largely evaporated at this point. "What are you waiting for?"

Bruce opened his eyes and looked at her. He had an idea.

"Agent Romanoff," he said, and wondered at the immensely calm tone of his voice, "I need you to shoot me."

She stared at him.

"I think in the head would be best," he added helpfully.

Natasha did not reply, instead narrowing her eyes in confusion.

"Just...do it, okay? I'll explain later. I promise." Bruce desperately hoped she wouldn't remember to hold him to that.

Natasha pulled a gun out of a holster on her thigh, still looking at him as though he had gone completely insane. Bruce supposed that was a rational response to his request.

She hesitated.

"Agent Romanoff, I wouldn't ask you to do this if it wasn't necessary. So just do it, please."

Still, she hesitated.

"It's not going to kill me."

Nothing.

"JUST DO IT!"

Bruce barely saw her move before he heard the gunshot.

And then there was nothing.

Thanks for reading!