Rebuilding From the Foundations
So it's been a while since I've written anything aside from essays, let alone anything substantial. But I'd like to. I've been on a bit of a marvel streak- and having read a lot of really interesting and funny and compelling fanfictions I want to put my two-cents in. black widow an d hulk both really interest me as characters and there's so many character points I want to play with that I already know I have to let at least half go to make anything cohesive happen. I hope that it does. And I hope it's not too terrible.
''You're the Black Widow.'' His voice was strong, though his breathing was erratic, teeth clenched. Blood pooled from Bruce Banner's shoulder and it was taking every single ounce of control he had to keep himself human right now.
''I know that.'' Her voice was confident, deep and even.
He looked across at her, waiting for it to mean something. Her gun remained calmly in her grip, her other hand twirling the knife she had got his shoulder with. She was calm, flawlessly so. Just as she had been trained. Bruce couldn't stand looking into the blank expression, the total obliviousness she was showing. It cut worse than the knife.
The concrete room seemed too expansive. It was cold and damp- just the two of them facing one another. A standoff. Deep breaths continued to go through his grit teeth, in his head he grasped at numbers trying to form some soothing pattern to keep himself calm. She was stood expectantly, waiting for an excuse, any excuse, to kill him. But first she had to understand why they sent a man with no obvious training to the likes of her. It was insulting really.
''I'm the Black Widow.'' She reminded him, as much as she did herself. Why wasn't he trying to attack? Why wasn't he trying to escape?
''I know that.'' He echoed her own words, sadness falling over him. He heard the buzz of continual chatter on his communication system, but he didn't care what anyone saying to him. He needed her back.
''Why aren't you running?'' Her voice was harsher, insulted, almost, at his pitiful appearance. Green eyes narrowed and cold. He didn't remember her ever giving him that look.
''I'm not in any danger.'' He chose his words carefully, he really didn't want this to end the way it inevitably was going to.
''Want to bet?'' Her eyebrow quirked a little and for a moment he could almost see Natasha behind the Widow.
''Look, 'Tasha, I don't want to hurt you-'' he forced himself to look into her eyes, pleading with her. She merely laughed as he stood up, wavering slightly. He took a step toward her, her stance immediately shifted ready for him. As he ran, the Hulk ripped free. She wasn't ready for that.
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Outside snow was finally falling in New York. Inside the Avengers Tower the heating was on frustratingly high, something to do with Tony's inability to deal with not being able to walk around in a t-hirt year round. They had long since argued about the environmental impact and been shot down with the eco-model tony had made to have his way. The uncomfortable stuffy air only fed into the disturbed sleep of a certain green scientist.
Bruce woke up from another nightmare. He heard his own grunting breaths, his skin stretching. His brain short wired; trying desperately to count and breathe. The colours flashed behind his eye lids, blurred and confused it was just all green. All his nightmares were green.
They were happening more and more often; his sleep was decreasing and his nerves were barely never flaring at him. Every night since New York the dreams got worse. He wondered what it would be like to sleep normally, to not be plagued by the truth of knowing you are your own greatest fear. His hands were over his face, Bruce hadn't even noticed that his eyes were wet. He was just so tired.
His feet found the floor of their own accord. He pulled a t-shirt over himself, feeling it stick immediately to the sweat, ignoring it to push his slippers on. He looked back at the bed, dishevelled and waiting- but he couldn't find any peace there.
For a while he merely wandered quietly, looking for something to do. The machines in the lab were whirring, meaning one Mr Stark was still awake. Bruce looked longingly at the door thinking about going in and either helping with whatever project Tony was working on. He stared at the door some more, hearing tony sing the chorus to whichever rock song he was playing. Bruce turned away; he didn't want to break the air with his sweaty, sad existence.
Next he stood in front of the fridge, opening and closing it hopelessly. He wasn't actually hungry but the cold waft felt so good. The Hulk was still in the foreground of his mind, guilt lingering behind that.
He found himself on the roof. He couldn't think of where else he could go. The cold air stung, but it made him feel awake. The winter air was relentless, and bitterly, he thought, that's exactly what he needed. Sleep was an enemy. But Bruce had never been so exhausted.
He looked back at the door, it had swung closed in the snowy wind but it hardly mattered. He'd be up here a while. Bruce had never really liked heights; but here he stood finding himself standing on the ledge looking out at the white-duveted city. Part of him felt reassured that the city couldn't sleep either; cars still on the roads, music still lingering in the distance, lights stretched out forever. Millions of people in a city, in one place, so many people that one man would never be missed. Would he be?
He shook his head, dislodging the notion of self-pity. It didn't matter anymore, he had a team. A team who needed the existence of what was slowly killing Bruce Banner. The Hulk was in the team, he thought, am I. As the years went by he became a shell, a housing for the Hulk. An alias, the man behind the muscle. Bruce hated the lack of control, it worried him. This precarious grip was forever in his mind, he hadn't relaxed in years. He hadn't lived for years. He looked back down at the city, his stomach swooping at the sheer drop. His toes flexing in his slippers, wondering how easy it would be – easier than falling to sleep.
''You going to do something stupid?'' Her voice was sarcastic and cold, it cut right through air. He jolted his head up, his stomach lurching at the sudden twitch, his self-preservation swearing loudly at him to get the fuck down.
He looked at her, for a moment he thought she was someone else, but the red curls meant it couldn't be. Despite her tone there was a look in her eyes, something he couldn't place. Her joints were all sharp, all ready to take action if needed. He wondered what she could have done if he'd stepped over, the same thoughts flickered helplessly in her brain.
His brain flickered back to the situation, it was awkward to say the least. He felt his cheeks and neck flare up with embarrassment. Natasha Romanoff was a mystery to him. He only knew what she had wanted him to know. He knew she was capable, that she was deadly. She had as much blood on her hands as he had- no, as the Hulk had. He was the Hulk. Natasha didn't like the Hulk. She feared him. And God, he didn't blame her, an angry monster using you as a rag doll will tend to do that. He'd lost his train of thought, merely standing there looking at her.
''Bruce,'' her voice was softer this time, still crisp and clear, '' are you going to do anything stupid?''
''I don't know-'' he looked back at the city. It looked smaller than before, louder too. He felt the wind against his back, it brought her words to him.
''Well until you figure it come back down here.''
He felt her exhale when he crouched, feet finding the ground. It crunched underneath him. He felt the chill through his pyjamas, but he wasn't ready to go in yet. Natasha finally let her guard down, her shoulders slumping her legs unwinding. He looked at her sheepishly; she too was in her sleepwear, a dressing gown pulled around herself protectively, and her hands now resting in the pockets. Her eyes flickered over him carefully, he felt the burn of her gaze.
''Are you alright?''
And what a loaded question to ask. He felt himself sway exhaustedly toward her, stopping at the entrance of an air duct. Carefully he dropped himself down, the stiffness and tiredness showing as he did so.
''I can't be in my head anymore,'' he sat on the floor, leaning against the cold vent.
She nodded because she understood entirely.
She sank into the spot next to him, her arm burned heat against his, he wondered how the weather didn't bother her. She just about reached his shoulder sat down, her head leaning back against the wall looking at the sky. Without make-up, there were defined hollows to her eyes, they sat prominent on her pal complexion, she looked so human. His eyes filtered to the dark sky still embarrassed, she looked as exhausted as he felt perhaps he wasn'[t as alone as he had thought.
''Why are you out here?'' He looked at her and she looked blankly back at him for a moment hot heat creeped back upon him.
''The snow reminds me of Russia.'' Her cheeks darkened ever so slightly. Natasha looked back at the sky, the slow white flakes falling on them. She yawned, arms resting on her knees.
''Nightmares?'' He asked, realising he gave himself away. Not that she wouldn't have got there of her own probing.
''Not always.'' She paused, biting her lip. When she looked at him he imagined an expectant expression on his face, it flickered. He wanted to hear more, he realised it was the only time he had asked her a personal question. He expected her to shut the door on his curiosity with a sarcastic comment, but her voice became higher, nostalgic. ''When I look at the snow like this- I think of when I was very small. Before all my life happened and got in the way. I imagine what it would've been like.''
She shook her head at herself, almost as if she thought human emotions were a weakness. He wished he could feel the full range of emotions like he used to, now there was numb and there was anger.
''Do you remember much?'' He knew he was probing, but he also knew that the Black Widow would either lie or walk away if she didn't want to disclose information.
''Practically nothing.'' She paused again, looking at him. Natasha sighed, forcing herself to continue. ''There were chickens, a man with red hair and ballet.''
He realised that she was trying. She was trying to be open but it was difficult, her eyebrows were furrowed as if in mild discomfort. He wasn't too far away from the mark.
''Not much to go on,'' he sympathised, wondering what it would be like to not remember your own childhood. For him he wondered if that would've been a good thing. If he had no memory then the Hulk would never have been born out of the anger and resentment he carried. But it didn't work that way. Those years defined who he became, they drove him to where he was. As had hers, but she had no clue what of her came from her, and what came from them. He felt a sadness for her he was sure she would resent him feeling.
''No, but I like to imagine a farm; warmth inside and snow outside. I imagine brothers and sisters, a mother and a father. I imagine family and what I'd be like now if I hadn't- if they hadn't-'' her voice broke off, her lips pouting into a frown. There was longing in her dream, so inaccessible it was itself a nightmare.
''I was thinking the same thing earlier.''
''You were?'' Her voice was small.
''What it would have been like if the accident hadn't happened. Where I'd be, what boring worries I'd have, if I would have had kids-'' he paused, stopping himself for wondering too hard, a pain was lodged in his chest. ''What it would be like to sleep without waking to green.''
''Red.'' Her eyes didn't waver from the white flakes falling.
''What?''
''I wake up to red.''
He felt himself make a small noise between a sob and a laugh. Finally he had found somebody who understood and she had been hidden down the hall all this time. He felt tears well in his eyes, he wasn't alone anymore and for now that's all that mattered.
Her head moved slightly, its heavy weight landing on his shoulder. He pulled away startled. She looked at him, her eyes directly into his. He saw the flecks of asymmetric gold in her pupils. It made her so much prettier. Not that he had never noticed, because obviously he had, he wasn't dead down there. Natasha finally looked at him with a certainty, she stood as his equal. For a moment he thought he may lean in and kiss her. The thought was crazy: she could castrate him before he even got close. But here so small and understanding he couldn't explain what she had done for him. He felt calm, the tremors in his body only for the cold, his eyes heavy because he wanted to sleep. For a moment he fully believes that they could understand everything about each other, forgetting it was only one conversation between two desperate individuals. Was he so lonely he confused gratitude for mutual affection?
She broke the gaze, panicking he wondered if she could mind read. Natasha stood up offering a warm hand to Bruce, frowning again at his shaking hand, the way he wrapped an arm around his wet torso. He realised he was shaking like a leaf from the cold. The doctor part of him sighed about hypothermia and pneumonia. Natasha's hand was resting on his cheek, he leant into the burning warmth, still perplexed how she didn't mind the cold. Her eyes still raked over his face and he was almost convinced she only needed eye contact to read minds.
And then she did the unthinkable; Natasha tilted her head and brushed her lips against his.
''Thank you, Bruce. I think I can sleep now.'' She turned quickly, walking back down the stairs into the waiting dark.