The cold seeps through his clothes. His head drops.
Why is that helmet here, and not with its owner? He knows, more sure than he's ever known anything, that he doesn't want an answer.
The figure in the bed stirs. Bruce turns, and watches himself roll onto his back. The eyes flicker open, sunk deep into waxen skin that sags hopelessly into the hollows of his cheeks. There's no way of guessing his age, but its older than anyone should ever get. And the colour of his eyes - he'd pull away in shock, but he has to be sure what he's looking at. The brown of them has been eaten away, the last vestiges clinging to the black pit in the middle, while the edges glow neon green.
'No. No no no...'
He steps away, shaking his head, but there's nowhere to go. The small of his back hits the armchair and he stops dead, as the rasping of his own aged breath gets louder, and starts filling the room. Something's gone wrong. There's not enough air.
'...can't be serious.'
The old man is shuddering. The blanket on top of the pile teeters, then begins a slow slide to the floor. The weight of it pulls a couple more with it, and Bruce can see himself clearly now, bones held together in his chest by the skin stretched over them. He's struggling to breath, both of them, heaving for air, and he thinks to himself that if he weren't so fucking scared, it would be freaky to watch yourself die.
Just go. Just go. Just...please, just go... and it's like a prayer, a mantra, just let this be it.
He hears a groan. The heaving stutters, and stops. And starts again. And stops.
And doesn't start again.
He watches his body go still, and the eyes fix on a point on the ceiling. It's silent. He's holding his breath. And...nothing.
Thank God.
His shoulders relax. And as they do, there's movement.
He watches in horror as the eyelids flicker once. It seems to trigger something, because the last of the brown in those eyes shifts, seems to swirl and then...fades away, swallowed up by the green seeping into it like venom through clean blood. Bruce feels the colour drain from his face as disbelief hits.
He can't move as he hears the sound resonate up through the prone figure, as if hearing a groan coming from the bottom of a well. It echoes, bouncing off organs and bones, rattling around the ribcage before finding the pipe that'll lead it to freedom. It rushes up out of the body like an oncoming express train, and erupts out of the mouth as the skin starts to stretch and bulge, mottling through veins it no longer has any use for, turning green for the last time.
The only coherent thought he has, at first, comes when he sees the look of satisfaction on the Hulk's face. As if this is what it's been waiting for all along.
He stands while the creature demolishes one side of the house with a sweep of his arm. It has grey hair, he registers, somewhere. More grey than black, anyway. He sees the red-gold helmet go flying out into space, and the shield disappears as the corner of the hut collapses; they're exposed to the plain, cold air flowing in as the Hulk thumps his fists into the ground, raises his face and screams at the sky.
Bruce watches, frozen in horror, waiting for something to come along and fix it. But nothing does. In the end, all that's left is the Hulk.
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Why is that helmet here, and not with its owner? He knows, more sure than he's ever known anything, that he doesn't want an answer.
The figure in the bed stirs. Bruce turns, and watches himself roll onto his back. The eyes flicker open, sunk deep into waxen skin that sags hopelessly into the hollows of his cheeks. There's no way of guessing his age, but its older than anyone should ever get. And the colour of his eyes - he'd pull away in shock, but he has to be sure what he's looking at. The brown of them has been eaten away, the last vestiges clinging to the black pit in the middle, while the edges glow neon green.
'No. No no no...'
He steps away, shaking his head, but there's nowhere to go. The small of his back hits the armchair and he stops dead, as the rasping of his own aged breath gets louder, and starts filling the room. Something's gone wrong. There's not enough air.
'...can't be serious.'
The old man is shuddering. The blanket on top of the pile teeters, then begins a slow slide to the floor. The weight of it pulls a couple more with it, and Bruce can see himself clearly now, bones held together in his chest by the skin stretched over them. He's struggling to breath, both of them, heaving for air, and he thinks to himself that if he weren't so fucking scared, it would be freaky to watch yourself die.
Just go. Just go. Just...please, just go... and it's like a prayer, a mantra, just let this be it.
He hears a groan. The heaving stutters, and stops. And starts again. And stops.
And doesn't start again.
He watches his body go still, and the eyes fix on a point on the ceiling. It's silent. He's holding his breath. And...nothing.
Thank God.
His shoulders relax. And as they do, there's movement.
He watches in horror as the eyelids flicker once. It seems to trigger something, because the last of the brown in those eyes shifts, seems to swirl and then...fades away, swallowed up by the green seeping into it like venom through clean blood. Bruce feels the colour drain from his face as disbelief hits.
He can't move as he hears the sound resonate up through the prone figure, as if hearing a groan coming from the bottom of a well. It echoes, bouncing off organs and bones, rattling around the ribcage before finding the pipe that'll lead it to freedom. It rushes up out of the body like an oncoming express train, and erupts out of the mouth as the skin starts to stretch and bulge, mottling through veins it no longer has any use for, turning green for the last time.
The only coherent thought he has, at first, comes when he sees the look of satisfaction on the Hulk's face. As if this is what it's been waiting for all along.
He stands while the creature demolishes one side of the house with a sweep of his arm. It has grey hair, he registers, somewhere. More grey than black, anyway. He sees the red-gold helmet go flying out into space, and the shield disappears as the corner of the hut collapses; they're exposed to the plain, cold air flowing in as the Hulk thumps his fists into the ground, raises his face and screams at the sky.
Bruce watches, frozen in horror, waiting for something to come along and fix it. But nothing does. In the end, all that's left is the Hulk.