Tony didn't need to say anything. Bruce knew exactly what he was thinking the second he found him sitting alone, in the dark, with a pistol hanging in his hand. He couldn't meet Tony's eyes for more than a moment, before dropping his gaze to the floor.

"I wasn't going to use it," Bruce tried to justify. His voice sounded more like a choked whisper than the convincing argument he was going for. "It just feels nice to hold, sometimes. Like maybe there's something that can be done about this."

Tony didn't move. He didn't need to.

Bruce dared to meet Tony's eyes, and felt his heart crumble. Those large, brown eyes that held so much life, so much warmth, had gone cold with disappointment and something Bruce couldn't identify. The playboy was ripping him apart with that look, with the way it buried into him and fell to the pit of his stomach in a twist of guilt.

"What?" Bruce said, his grip along the heavy metal handle tightened, "You know I don't mean it. I wasn't going to…" but the look on Tony's face told him he's lying. He was thinking about it, believing 'maybe this time, maybe this time it'll work, and I won't have to face it anymore.' He'd even placed the gun at his temple, and imagined what it would feel like to have the bullet pierce his skull. He thought about the consequences; if he'd feel relieved once he'd ended his life, or if his worse half would make an appearance and he would be left picking up the pieces.

Then Tony appeared. Without warning, without fanfare, he walked into the room, knowing full well what Bruce was planning, and gave him that look; that look that made him drop the gun into his lap and try to defend himself for sitting in the dark with the barrel to his head, while Tony was being too damn quiet.

"Okay, I was going to," he said, unable to take the silence for one more second. He finally met Tony's eyes, pleading for that expression to leave Tony's face, "I can't take this…paranoia, anymore. I'm tired of being afraid, of myself, of hurting everyone else."

He stood, pacing across the small room with the gun still swinging at his side, trying not to meet Tony's eyes again and feel the wrath of that look, "I can't take it, anymore, Tony. Any second now, I'm going to explode, and you're gonna get hurt, and…" he felt tears prickling at his eyes, "I can't take it. I can't handle the thought of you suffering because of me. I'm a liability, to you, to the team, to….everything I touch. I can't…. I just can't…" he trailed off, unable to stop the tears from flowing from his eyes.

He fell back onto the bench, holding his head in his hands as vicious sobs threatened to tear him apart, "I can't fight this anymore."

He heard quiet steps draw closer, and felt the bench shake a bit under Tony's weight. Two arms lifted his head from his hands, and drew him close Tony's chest. He felt the gun fall and crash onto the floor as he clung to Tony like a drowning man.

"I can't," he sobbed as Tony's hands wound themselves through his hair, almost petting him.

"I know," Tony said, holding Bruce tight enough to hurt, but maybe that's what Bruce needs. Maybe he needs to have someone hold him too tightly, just to prove that he's safe, and that he's not alone. And if Tony can hold him this roughly, maybe he can prove to Bruce that he isn't going anywhere. He could prove to Bruce that he can't be broken.