Death. Always death. It all comes back to that. Bruce talks about his death so easily, his own easier still. Like it's good. Like it's something to be anticipated with enthusiasm.

In his mind's eye, he sees himself reaching across empty air, too slow, too weak, too late to save Pepper before she fell into the fire. He sees Yinsen laying in his own blood, bleeding out from a dozen gunshot wounds. Jarvis. His parents. Coulson. So many dead because he's never been capable of saving them. And just like them, he sees Bruce fading with age, disappearing despite anything he might try to do to prevent it. Because death is all he's ever been able to give to anyone and Bruce is right. Why should he get to avoid paying the piper his due?

"Fine." It's bitten out, harsh and a little too loud to his ears. He takes a breath, wrestles back control of himself, and tries again. "Fine. If that's what you want, sure. Forget I said anything about it."

He's suffocating, unable to breathe, and he pushes away from the doorway, heading for the door that will take him outside into the fresh air.