Bruce was a military man. He was a military scientist, and it had been his downfall, but it had never been his shame.
Now it was.
He wondered if there had been experiments on humans after his accident. If there would have been, had there never been an accident and he had stayed. If he would have been the one performing them. If he would have been the kind of person to agree to do them, design them, maybe propose them. Bruce had always been a scientist first.
Self-hatred was an old friend, but they have never been this close before.
His subject - no, no, that wasn't acceptable, his patient - panicked the moment a needle pierced his skin. The first procedure, just to take blood for morphology, to check his vitamin levels and iron and the most basic GP variables--- Bruce didn't explain any of that. He just went on to proceed to examin a subject.
He took his patient's bare arm without asking, didn't encounter any protest, assumed everything was fine and enamating calm like a good doctor he went on to sterilize his chosen spot on the subjects body, because he was a scientist first.
It only took a fraction of a second to get harshly reminded he wasn't working on mice anymore.
His patient shot back, scrambled away from, drew his arm to his chest before anyone could stop him - the needle broke, half of it under his skin - and the worst part was, he didn't try to run. He curled up on the medical cot as far away from him as possible, but he didn't run. He didn't fight. He just begged. "No drugs, no drugs..."
Natasha burst through the door. White coats came in behind her in a scrambling chaos, driven by degenerate curiosity. Before anyone could blink she was attacking him, with no regard for the Hulk.
Just like that, the begging changed. Don't hurt Natalia.
Both of them froze. Natasha with her fists in his white coat lapels about to push him up the wall. Him with his hands up and away from her, too shocked to be angry, with a jittery presence inside him.
It took a while before they could do anything else.
His begging for Natasha - Natalia - never stopped. Black Widow looked shell-shocked. Not shocked with surprise. Traumatised. Somewhere behind them, several of the white coats were taking notes.
If hatred for himself was potent, he was suddenly discovering that hatred for others like him was on another level entirely.
Bruce Banner was not a good man. He just might destroy this room and floor after all, and kill.
But there was that shaking bundle to think about.
He had a patient, right. Trembling like a leaf. Crying. Helpless. And begging for the safety of somebody else.
Natasha knew that he wasn't going to hurt her friend - it was the best term he could describe them with - or at least, he hoped she did. Better than himself, anyway. In the end, she trusted him.
"Stay with him," she ordered harshly.
After she walked out, his subject - his patient, what was wrong with him - subsided. Like with a magic spell.
He stopped begging. Didn't resume begging for himself. Stopped making any noise, at all. Slowly pushed himself it a sitting position, with obvious reluctance and obvious determination. Without looking up, he offered his arm.
Bruce wanted to vomit.
He walked up to his patient anyway. Took the arm. "I'm going to pull the needle out," he murmured.
Fill: part 18 - Bruce
Bruce was a military man. He was a military scientist, and it had been his downfall, but it had never been his shame.
Now it was.
He wondered if there had been experiments on humans after his accident. If there would have been, had there never been an accident and he had stayed. If he would have been the one performing them. If he would have been the kind of person to agree to do them, design them, maybe propose them. Bruce had always been a scientist first.
Self-hatred was an old friend, but they have never been this close before.
His subject - no, no, that wasn't acceptable, his patient - panicked the moment a needle pierced his skin. The first procedure, just to take blood for morphology, to check his vitamin levels and iron and the most basic GP variables--- Bruce didn't explain any of that. He just went on to proceed to examin a subject.
He took his patient's bare arm without asking, didn't encounter any protest, assumed everything was fine and enamating calm like a good doctor he went on to sterilize his chosen spot on the subjects body, because he was a scientist first.
It only took a fraction of a second to get harshly reminded he wasn't working on mice anymore.
His patient shot back, scrambled away from, drew his arm to his chest before anyone could stop him - the needle broke, half of it under his skin - and the worst part was, he didn't try to run. He curled up on the medical cot as far away from him as possible, but he didn't run. He didn't fight. He just begged. "No drugs, no drugs..."
Natasha burst through the door. White coats came in behind her in a scrambling chaos, driven by degenerate curiosity. Before anyone could blink she was attacking him, with no regard for the Hulk.
Just like that, the begging changed. Don't hurt Natalia.
Both of them froze. Natasha with her fists in his white coat lapels about to push him up the wall. Him with his hands up and away from her, too shocked to be angry, with a jittery presence inside him.
It took a while before they could do anything else.
His begging for Natasha - Natalia - never stopped. Black Widow looked shell-shocked. Not shocked with surprise. Traumatised. Somewhere behind them, several of the white coats were taking notes.
If hatred for himself was potent, he was suddenly discovering that hatred for others like him was on another level entirely.
Bruce Banner was not a good man. He just might destroy this room and floor after all, and kill.
But there was that shaking bundle to think about.
He had a patient, right. Trembling like a leaf. Crying. Helpless. And begging for the safety of somebody else.
Natasha knew that he wasn't going to hurt her friend - it was the best term he could describe them with - or at least, he hoped she did. Better than himself, anyway. In the end, she trusted him.
"Stay with him," she ordered harshly.
After she walked out, his subject - his patient, what was wrong with him - subsided. Like with a magic spell.
He stopped begging. Didn't resume begging for himself. Stopped making any noise, at all. Slowly pushed himself it a sitting position, with obvious reluctance and obvious determination. Without looking up, he offered his arm.
Bruce wanted to vomit.
He walked up to his patient anyway. Took the arm. "I'm going to pull the needle out," he murmured.