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The smell hit first—oil, rust, dust baked into concrete.
A warehouse.
Of course it was a warehouse. Where else would he end up?
He blinked as the last of sleep left him. There was a weight on his wrists. Rope, maybe. Chains? He couldn't quite tell.
His chest ached with every breath, and when he looked down—God, that was blood. A bloom spreading hot across his shirt, sticking fabric to skin.
“—merchant of—death—”
The voice came from the shadows. Warped. Like someone speaking through a broken speaker, syllables stretched and jagged. But familiar too, too familiar. Obie, maybe. No—Rhodey? No, no.
He couldn't tell. But it was definitely someone he knew.
God, did they drug him? They must have.
Something cold pressed against his temple. A gun. He didn’t flinch. He’d played this game before. Instead, he forced a smirk, mouth dry. “We should really establish a safe word before we start with the gunplay."
The shadow leaned in. Edges blurred, like a bad video feed. The barrel dug harder against his skull. Then—pain. White-hot, sharp across his side. He gasped, doubling forward, the cut blooming new heat over old.
“—not a hero—never was—”
His hand flew to his side, came away slick. Real. Too real. He forced himself back against the wall anyway, teeth bared in something that wasn’t quite a grin.
“Yeah, well, newsflash,” he rasped. His other hand came up, palm open. The reactor hummed. He felt the familiar charge of a repulsor building, steady and sure. “I don’t have to be a hero to fry your ass.”
The glow lit the space around him, harsh and blue. He aimed, but every time he locked on, the figure slipped sideways, blurred out of focus.
He fired anyway.
And fired, and fired. Yet each one missed, some bouncing off the walls. One came back, scorching the wall beside his head.
“—blood on your hands—villain—this is the end—”
He pressed harder against the wound, his own breath echoing back at him, louder than the phantom voice. But he refused to lower his hand. If he went down, it wouldn’t be without a fight.
Bruce was already rehearsing his approach—something gentle, something strict yet not overbearing, Tony never responds well to force. Maybe even the promise of a shared sandwich if Tony wanted company.
He was halfway down the hall when the sound hit him: a metallic clang, then a grunt, sharp and pained.
His stomach dropped. He bolted the rest of the way, shoving through the lab doors and—
Tony was in the far corner, curled against the wall like a trapped animal. One hand clamped tight against his side, shirt torn and streaked dark. The other hand was raised, palm out, glowing with nothing but sweat and trembling fingers. His eyes were wild, unfocused, locked on some point in empty air.
By his feet lay a box cutter, blade smeared faint red.
“Got plenty more where that came from,” Tony rasped, voice hoarse, pitched too loud. “You think you can outmaneuver me? Please. I invented the concept of—” He broke off with a hiss, jerking to the side like he’d just dodged a blow. His arm twitched, extended again in a sharp motion, like firing a repulsor that wasn’t there.
Bruce's heart hammered in his chest. He'd seen Tony's panic attacks, flashbacks. This didn't look like either.
He took a deep breath and forced his voice calm, steady. "Tony," he said, palms out where Tony could see them. "It's Bruce. You're safe now."
Tony’s head snapped toward him, and for half a heartbeat Bruce thought it had worked. Then Tony’s expression twisted—panic, betrayal, rage all flickering across his face at once.
“Not falling for that again,” Tony spat. His palm trembled harder, aimed square at Bruce’s chest. “You think I don’t know what this is? You think I don’t know who you are?”
Bruce froze. “I’m not—Tony, look at me. It’s me. You’re hallucinating. You’re not in danger.”
Tony barked a laugh that cracked on the edges, wild and thin. “Right. ‘Not in danger.’ Tied up, gut shot, gun to my head, but sure, Not-Banner, totally a spa day.” He shifted his weight like he was bracing for another blow, palm still raised, and winced as his side flared again.
Bruce took a slow step forward. The smell of copper was strong. The cut on his side looked shallow, fortunately.
God, Bruce really should've taken that peer support course.
“Stay back,” Tony snapped, his hand twitching, little sparks of phantom light dancing in his pupils. He was pale, sweat beading along his hairline. “One more step and I—” His words stuttered, broke. “And I’ll do it. Don’t test me.”
Bruce raised both hands higher, slow and deliberate. “Okay. I’m not moving. You don’t have to prove anything.”
Tony’s focus wavered, just for a second—his gaze cutting over Bruce’s shoulder, to some phantom in the corner Bruce couldn’t see. He flinched violently, pressing harder against his bleeding side. “Shut up,” he muttered, voice cracking. “Shut the hell up. I said I’d fix it. I said—”
The hand aiming at Bruce jerked, a sharp twist of his wrist, like he’d just fired another repulsor. Nothing followed, but Bruce could practically hear the echoes of explosions rattling around inside Tony’s head.
Bruce sighed, crouching down. He tried again, a little firmer this time. "Tony. Listen to me. You're in the tower. There's no one else here. No gun, no fight. Just you and me."
“No,” Tony rasped, eyes wide and unfocused. His body shuddered with the effort of keeping himself sitting upright. “You don’t get to— You—” He let out a short, broken laugh. “You're not.. Bruce. Don't impersonate my friends."
Bruce’s chest tightened. Impersonate. God. Tony didn’t even recognize him.
“Alright,” Bruce said softly, forcing his voice to stay steady even though his pulse thundered in his ears. “I won’t call myself that, then. But I’m not here to hurt you. You’re not tied up. You’re not bleeding out. You’re safe.”
Tony snorted, a jagged sound, half-laughter, half-snarl. His hand flicked again, arm trembling with the effort of keeping it raised. “Safe. Right. That’s rich. Next you’ll tell me Obie’s just stepping out for coffee.”
Bruce knew this spiral. He’d lived it in his own ways—visions so real you could taste the iron of the blood, feel the chains you swore were there.
He edged one step closer, keeping his hands visible. “Okay. If I’m not me, tell me who you see. Tell me who you think I am.”
Tony’s gaze darted sideways, then back to him. His lips curled. “Hydra. AIM. Take your pick. Masks on masks. Noones got a single creative bone these days."
Bruce swallowed hard, every instinct screaming to get closer, to steady Tony before he collapsed under the weight of his own delusion. But who knows what one wrong move might do?
"Okay," Bruce said evenly, nodding as if Tony's answer made perfect sense. "Hydra. AIM. Masks. Sure."
Bruce settled onto the floor, cross-legged, slow enough that Tony could track every movement. Sitting made him smaller, less of a threat. Still, Tony’s eyes followed him like a hawk, his raised hand trembling so hard Bruce worried he’d dislocate something.
“Smart,” Tony muttered, bitter and rasping. “Get me to drop my guard, huh? Make me think you’re harmless. Oldest trick in the book.”
Bruce let that sit. He knew better than to argue. “Maybe,” he said finally, keeping his voice soft, steady. “But if I was trying to hurt you, wouldn’t I already have? You’ve got a repulsor pointed right at me.”
Tony blinked at that, his gaze flicking down to his hand. The faintest crack in the armor. Bruce pressed gently.
"You havent slept in almost four days, Tony. You need rest."
Tony’s throat bobbed. For a second, his eyes almost cleared—then the phantom voice came again. He flinched, snarl twisting his features, and jerked his hand toward the empty corner of the lab.
“Shut up! I said I’d fix it, I—” His voice broke, catching hard in his chest. “I can fix it, I always fix it—”
The hand on his side slipped. Fresh blood smeared down his shirt. He tilted, and Bruce lunged forward on instinct, catching Tony’s shoulders just as he slumped sideways. He braced for a blow, a repulsor blast that never came, only a weak shove of trembling fingers.
“Get—off—” Tony snarled, the fight drained to embers. His voice cracked, rasping through grit. His head lolled forward, sweat dripping off his hairline.
"Tony," Bruce tightened his grip, holding Tony to his chest. "It's not real. Whatever you're seeing, it's not real. You're here. With me."
Tony groaned, a low sound of protest, but his eyelids fluttered. His hand twitched, finally dropping an inch, then another, until it fell against his chest, limp.
Bruce pressed his fingers lightly to the side wound. Shallow, like he’d guessed. The box cutter had left a nasty slice, but nothing deep enough to be fatal. Still, the sight of the blood was enough to twist Bruce’s stomach.
"It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He swallowed hard, staring at the streaks of red. “I promise, Tony. I’ve got you.”