On Your Birthday

By Autumn_Froste & DrRJSB

Summary: After the Accident, Bruce Banner has been difficult for S.H.I.E.L.D. to track, so Director Fury has put his best Agent on the case to find the rogue physicist and evaluate him from a distance with orders not to engage the subject. When he settles in Detroit, so does Natasha so she can keep her eye on him. Why does the notorious Black Widow find the last part of her assignment becoming more and more difficult as the weeks and months pass? Has she crossed the line and started to care for him? Has she become compromised?

Note: This piece is written in honor of Mark Ruffalo and Scarlett Johansson's mutual Birthday on November 22, 2018. It is both MCU and Special Needs compliant.

December 18, 2007

The weather was the aching kind of cold that got into most people's bones, especially if they weren't from the Great Lakes or other regions that held the potential for brutally cold weather. However, in this case, Bruce was the exception, he'd never really felt cold since the accident— it was one of the very few perks to his "chronic condition." After a week with snow in the forecast and yards, not merely inches, on the ground, the sky was finally clear and high and blindingly blue that morning after the sun came up. He'd spent a long day working at the downtown free clinic after volunteering to do an extra shift and staying even busier than usual with locals starting to dig out of the last waist-deep load of lake-effect snow. He straightened his back after the last shovel of snow was pitched that morning and looked at the sky, wondering if the day he was born it had been this blue.

In only two months, Bruce had worked his way up from an orderly and "fetch-it" person to minding the front desk to assisting the LPN when things got a little harried, like they had been today. Anywhere else but Detroit, he'd have likely been rejected over the vague and incomplete paperwork, but here he'd managed to step neck deep into a pit of wants and needs that—as long as no one asked too many questions—would take all the help he could offer. The thing was, he could have utilized his biology degree and medical skills a lot more and wanted to do just that, but he couldn't without giving himself away or raising suspicions after a certain point. That, unfortunately, was something he couldn't afford, not if he wanted to access the lab and equipment quietly for his own specific reasons. It made him feel more than a little guilty and uncomfortably deceitful, but he was pretty certain he was more than compensating the clinic by pitching in extra hours and supporting its mission of providing healthcare to the inner-city neighborhood.

Today, once he'd made it in early, talked sweetly to the finicky old boiler, and shoveled the walks, Bruce had given well over a dozen vaccinations, two foot treatments, and three hepatitis screenings; then, he diagnosed rashes, read an old man the riot act about his uncontrolled diabetes, treated a case of near frostbite, and checked out several varieties of coughs, aches, and pains before turning the serious cases over to one of the licensed medical doctors on staff. Oh, and there was the child who'd taken a tumble off a porch and banged her head—the one whom the attractive blonde woman had carried in and dropped off. The Good Samaritan hadn't stayed, but she'd apparently located the child's grandmother and delivered her to the clinic doorstep while he'd treated the little girl. The do-gooder was gone so quickly he'd not been able to thank her. Weirder things had happened, but not that day.

After the last patient was gone, Bruce had done the janitorial duties, watered the plants he'd brought in himself, and then helped close up the place with a coworker at around 8:00 pm. On the spur of the moment, he then decided to treat himself at the diner he normally just walked past or limited himself to a desert and a tea or coffee to save his money. He'd signed his patents over to his cousin Jennifer Walters who saw that his Aunt Susan and others he felt he owed were compensated, so Bruce was pretty much on his own financially if he wanted to avoid being found. Luckily, the local gray economy was alive and well and so was gambling if he needed some extra income, but entering a casino with its extra security carried its own risks. Despite staying busy, he currently wasn't a particularly gregarious person for a number of reasons, but on this dark evening he wanted a little company. Althea, the matronly waitress, was a welcome and familiar face though she looked like her day had been as long as his.

Bruce knocked the slush and snow of his boots before he ordered hot tea and settled into his usual seat at the counter, debating whether he wanted a burger and fries or straight-up comfort food. He took off his gloves and unfastened his coat, but kept it on. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes sounded kind of good because it reminded him of happier times before he'd been on the run or hunkered down hiding while trying to further his very focused research agenda covertly on the side.

"How are your feet?" he asked as Althea brought him a mug of hot water and a teabag.

"The dogs are barking, Davey, my boy, but I'll be getting 'em elevated as soon as I'm home. You look like you've been up awhile yourself."

"You know I like staying busy." What he didn't say was he wanted to be distracted, so he wouldn't dwell on what day it was.

"Um-hmm, don't we all. What can I bring you? Don't just say, 'cherry pie,' either." She pointed her pencil at him for emphasis, "The special will help keep you warm longer."

Bruce laughed, "Okay, the meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy and . . . green beans sounds good."

"Excellent choice," the waitress acknowledged with a pleased smile and turned to go put in his order.

Bruce looked around to see who else was still out on a cold evening, chastising himself for getting lax with his observation skills. To his surprise, behind him a few booths down from where he was seated at the counter was the young blonde woman who'd brought the injured child into the clinic earlier. He studied her surreptitiously for a few moments via her reflection in a glass cabinet while she seemed preoccupied checking her cell phone. There were a few other locals he recognized, but she was definitely new to him. He wasn't sure what her story was, but he decided it was safer just to keep his head down like he normally did and not engage people beyond what was necessary. Things were just safer that way.

Natasha Romanoff, Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., had been keeping an eye on one Dr. Robert Bruce Banner (or should she call him "Bill Bancroft" or was it "Mark David Green" this time? She'd almost lost track) off and on for almost nine months now. Fury had borrowed her from Phil Coulson's team back in March specifically for this surveillance job. She'd first spotted her mark in British Columbia, observed him from a distance and lost him for a few frustrating weeks, then caught up to him after he'd slipped past the Customs and Border Protection Officers at Windsor and then settled into this Detroit neighborhood as summer cooled off and the cooler fall days took hold. She noted he'd developed a bit of a pattern of laying low until something happened then disappearing only to resurface almost in plain sight someplace else. If the reports were to be believed, he'd been to South America, Japan, Russia, and Italy before returning to Canada for unknown reasons. She was surprised he'd regrown the beard here in Detroit, but at least it was well-trimmed at the moment and not the bushy mask he was hiding behind while north of the border.

Her orders were to keep her distance and observe, check in if there were new developments, and above all: "DO NOT ENGAGE THE SUBJECT." She'd read his file several times, committing it all to memory, so she well understood why he was such a potential threat as well as the risks she be taking by accepting the assignment. The job was fairly simple, but also pretty boring most of the time—until it wasn't. She'd started by bugging and wiring his small apartment and the clinic where he worked before following him into a few of Detroit's dozen or so casinos. There he'd employed some form of card counting that neither she nor any of her colleagues had been able to crack . . . yet. (After all, the guy was a genius!) Over the past eight months, three weeks, and three days of shadowing the physicist, she'd never been within 50 feet of him in public until today.

She'd done the same thing he had and settled in the Downtown neighborhood back in late September, residing across the street from his efficiency apartment where she could quietly monitor him and blend into the background. That required a disguise on her part. She'd opted for a blonde dye job rather than a wig and picked out some shapeless gender-neutral clothing at a thrift store. Natasha enjoyed new disguises and taking a break from being the femme fatale in six-inch stilettos or a tight leather cat suit felt liberating. She'd darkened her fair skin a few shades for an olive complexion, but otherwise, less was better with the makeup. She'd topped it off with a short bob cut she could hide under a hat or hood if she chose.

Within 24 hours of moving in, she'd found a friendly place for coffee where she could watch her mark emerge from his apartment building and walk down the block to the clinic where he worked—initially as a volunteer, but now he earned a very modest salary if their hacked payroll records were accurate. Initially, the secret, afterhours lab privileges seemed like the real reason for his choice of employment there, but he couldn't seem to make himself lay low as an unskilled worker and simply keep his head down. The other part of his pattern she had noted was he eventually had to leave places because he was a sucker for trying to help people, and that always seemed to blow his cover in the end, often in dramatic ways. The little incident last January in Samara, Russia, was a good example. Maybe Fury should have called her in sooner?

Agent Romanoff had yet to see the good doctor become the other much larger version of himself, but he'd run a couple of times after "incidents," and he was good at disappearing into the scenery. If it weren't for S.H.I.E.L.D.'s resources, her skills, and her contacts, he might have slipped completely away from her this last time in B.C. Now, after so many months of observation and scrutinizing the data, she knew him well enough that she could predict 80% of what he was going to do and when it would happen.

Of course, she was one to talk. Natasha hadn't started the day planning to compromise her own operation, but it had happened when she saw a little girl take a header down a set of icy steps. Almost before she could think, the spy had covered the distance across the ice-encrusted street and stooped over the small child to assess the situation. "Sweetie, are you okay?" she asked, and the little girl whimpered and teared up. "My name is Natalie. What's your name?"

"Alisha Love."

"That's a pretty name. Can you show me where you hurt?" The child held up her bare hands and touched her face. There was visible bruising and a couple of scrapes, but the goose egg on little Alisha's forehead and her stunned listlessness concerned Natasha more because it looked like a possible concussion. "Do you live here?" Natasha asked and the girl pointed to the house next door. Nat tried knocking on the door, but she couldn't raise anyone and there were no lights or electronics on. After Alisha could sit up on her own, Natasha gently picked her up and made their way to the free clinic. She would have to come back and find an adult later—if she wasn't arrested for kidnapping first.

Another thing she hadn't planned to do was hand the child over directly into her mark's arms and get a close-up look at his face and those deep brown eyes. Banner had been at the clinic's front desk wearing a name tag that said, "Dave," as he helped a patient fill out paperwork, but he quickly directed Natasha into an examination room when she explained what she saw happen. He immediately used a small flashlight and checked the girl's irises to make sure they constricted and dilated properly. He'd sighed with relief and stepped out into the hall to grab one of the clinic's two doctors.

Now that the girl was in good hands, Natasha had decided it was time to find an adult who should be there with the child. She retraced her steps and knocked on two more doors before she found someone who directed her to the grandmother's apartment around the corner. Shortly thereafter, Nat walked Alisha's grandmother to the clinic and then beat a hasty retreat back toward her own flat.

Natasha had thought about contacting Fury to see if another agent ought to replace her now, but she decided against it. Banner probably hadn't gotten a good look at her in all the excitement since her hood and scarf had covered most of her face, and he didn't act like he recognized her from the neighborhood either. Now that she thought about it, Nick would probably be more ticked about her asking him than he would be about what had transpired.

Her boots crunched on the ice and packed snow as she navigated the half-cleared sidewalk back to her apartment building. She spent a few hours warming up, reviewing data, and going over the surveillance recordings for the last 24 hours. She hadn't put a camera directly in the bathroom since Banner habitually left the door open for some reason, but she slowed down her scanning and listened to the audio when the guy stepped into the shower because he usually sang. He had a good voice, and it was always interesting to hear what he picked from old pop songs to show tunes to commercial jingles and classical pieces. The Disney songs were her personal favorites. This morning he'd picked one she didn't know. It was kind of a lullaby for which she'd have to Google the lyrics later. Then he'd changed pace completely and switched over to the Beatles' "Today's Your Birthday," and finally it hit her what day it was.

Natasha moved over to her StarkPad and checked to make certain. Yes, he turned 38 today. "Happy birthday, Doctor," she murmured. Natasha spent another hour sorting through the recordings from his apartment and the clinic's lab, but she didn't find much to forward to S.H.I.E.L.D. She'd taken pictures of his notes, but the most they'd learned was that he was monitoring his radiation levels and looking for ways to boost the effectiveness of his anti-radiation serum. The S.H.I.E.L.D. scientists thought he was attempting to find a way to repress his transformations, but Natasha was certain he was trying to make himself less radioactive and safer for others to be around. It certainly fit his M.O. to consider others first. Two days later, he'd managed to recreate his original research in the clinic's lab and modify the formula. Before she could sneak a sample, he'd calmly used all of the serum on himself that evening and destroyed the evidence. That had been a pretty tense night for her as she watched him sleep on the monitor from her apartment, but he hadn't shown any ill effects. Say what you want, the guy was pretty ballsy when it came to trusting his own work.

A few days later, he brought home a potted plant that she'd identified as tradescantia, commonly known as spiderwort or cradle lily. After a little research, she learned its purple-blue flowers were bioindicators for environmental mutagens, specifically gamma radiation, which upon exposure would cause the plant's DNA to instantly mutate and the flowers to change from purple to pink. Talk about a low-tech monitor! He took one to the clinic as well which had a spot close to him on the reception desk. The day each bloomed a dark shade of violet was a good day for both of them.

Aside from working at the clinic and the covert use of the lab, the guy meditated, did yoga, washed and folded laundry, cooked, cleaned, read voraciously, wrote, and slept when he was in his apartment. It was almost the same monkish routine she herself had except when she was observing him. Natasha wondered, not for the first time, why had Fury asked her to take this assignment? Was it really one that called for her skill set? She scrolled through the video of him stretching out on the floor and limbering up early that morning. He was pretty easy on the eyes, even with bedhead and wearing a threadbare t-shirt and baggy sweatpants. "Yah, maybe I will put a camera into the bathroom mirror the next time I get a chance," she said with a crooked smile.

Nat decided she needed a walk to clear her head and regain her perspective. She bundled up again, glad that her boots and gloves had dried out. "Dave" in his cute medical smock was going to be stuck at the clinic till this evening, so she had more than a few free hours. Natasha grabbed her gym bag and headed out. There weren't exactly a lot of places to train in the area, but she'd found a mixed martial arts studio that had a weight room about ten blocks away. Getting there was almost worth a Parkour workout in itself with all the snow still on the walks and streets with giant piles of it twice her height in yards and along the curb, but she did get to spend an hour hitting the weights before she headed back. Parts of the city reminded her of Russia in bits and pieces. By the time she arrived at her apartment, it was late afternoon and getting dark. After a shower, she didn't feel like cooking, so she bundled up one more time and ventured down to the corner diner to have a hot meal and watch for her mark to trudge home for the evening, like he did nine out of ten times. When he finally made his appearance, it wasn't just a walk-by though. To her surprise, "Dave" the birthday boy came in and sat down at the counter about 15 feet away from her.

The meatloaf was different than his Aunt Susan made, but it was still good, and the mashed potatoes were nice and buttery. There were even mushrooms in the gravy, too. Althea was right, when it was this cold out, a little protein, carbs, and fat hit the spot, especially when he didn't have to cook or wash dishes. At that moment, Bruce felt as happy as he had in a long time. He missed his old life and the people he cared for, but today he was okay. Bruce didn't allow himself many comforts, but he was glad he'd come in tonight. He wondered what his aunt and cousin Jenn were doing and how Betty was getting along. Bruce hoped they were okay and moving on with their lives, but he didn't dwell too much on it. They had to keep marching forward, and so did he, whether or not he'd see them again.

Bruce closed his eyes a moment. He always had a nagging feeling, a prickle on the back of his neck like the sword of Damocles was dangling over his head, but right now he was in control of himself and feeling as mentally and physically at ease as he would allow himself. The other part of him was even quiet for a change instead of being a roaring pit of frustration Bruce constantly had to force into submission. He'd taken a radiation reading after he cleaned the lab earlier that evening, and the readings from the gamma he'd absorbed were lower for the third week in a row, confirming what the pots of tradescantia and his cobbled-together spectrometer at the apartment were telling him. For once, he was feeling hopeful this might be the new normal for him, and something he'd tried had gone right for a change.

Shortly after the accident, he'd put out enough radiation, especially when he was upset, to trip a warning on a Geiger counter. Thank God, Ross and his goons hadn't realized that and used it to find him. He'd had to stay away from people for safety's sake for months before the risk of exposure to him was finally in the acceptable range. He had enough blood on his hands and guilt on his conscience without adding cases of radiation poisoning to his tally.

Bruce speared a forkful of green beans and contemplated what it might be like to work more consistently with people now and not have to keep monitoring his physical distance. Most of his colleagues thought he was a nervous germaphobe, and he was happy to let them since they were safer that way. Being around people was always going to be a calculated risk, but at least the benefits from the booster shot of his anti-radiation serum seemed to be kicking in. It was a small victory, but he needed something in the win column.

Sipping at his tea, Bruce finally let himself consider how he might start working on ways to cure his curse. He'd been working on biofeedback and meditation in the meantime to manage the monster, but there had to be some way to be rid of it. He was working hard at controlling his temper, but sometimes it was difficult not to get upset when he witnessed injustices and micro-aggressions everywhere he went while on the run. He wasn't certain if that was because of the places he chose to blend into or if he was becoming more empathetic and attuned to how unfair the universe could be for others. Thanks to how he'd grown up, Bruce was skilled at bottling up his own feelings about what happened to him, but when he saw bad things happening to other people who couldn't stand up for themselves, he had a hard time ignoring those situations. He kept having to tell himself to keep his head down and walk away because he had really become the nuclear option and everyone would end up getting hurt if he didn't keep it together. With great power, comes great responsibility, one of his old mentors had always told him.

Bruce had a piece of paper in his wallet with a list of five names printed on it that he repeated like a mantra when he felt the monster clawing at the back of his mind, inching closer to escaping, because it helped to remember whom he and the other guy had, well . . . together they were responsible for taking these people's lives and hurting others. He'd looked them up as soon as he'd had access to a library. It took a little research, but he'd been able to contact Jenn, and she'd set up a fund with his patent money and made certain the survivors were taken care of financially. He'd never forget their names though he couldn't remember more than a few flashing images of how he must have killed them.

That was one of the most disturbing parts of the whole experience for him: Bruce had lost more than just control over his body, he'd lost sizable parts of his memories. He knew he'd repressed large parts of his childhood because of the abuse he'd suffered, but now he was haunted by vague impressions that more memories were gone or just not accessible anymore. He'd think back to moments and events he knew he'd experienced, but couldn't completely recall them. He'd finally remembered a voice that wasn't his in the back of his mind, speaking to him in calming and familiar tones, but it was not his mother's nor his aunt's or cousin's voice. It was masculine and matured along with him. Then it was gone, and he couldn't recall anything connected to it. He only knew it wasn't his own, it wasn't anyone he knew, and he hadn't imagined it.

The sound of someone clearing her throat brought him immediately back to reality, and he looked up to see the young blonde woman who had brought the child into the clinic earlier hovering nervously a few feet to his left with her hood shadowing most of her face. "Hey, could you tell me if Alisha Love is okay?" she asked in a husky voice.

"Privacy rules won't let me give you the details, but I can assure you she's going to be fine," Bruce told her.

She nodded, "Good, thanks for treating her, Doc." Then she raised a gloved hand and was gone out the door before he could even ask her name or remember he should correct her because he wasn't supposed to be a doctor, just "Dave," the guy who worked the desk. He turned back to the counter on his stool, but then looked over his shoulder toward the door to see which way she'd gone. Unfortunately, Bruce didn't see her pass by either direction as he stared out at the dark street. Maybe they'd see each other again in the neighborhood.

After a few moments, Bruce turned back to the counter as he heard Althea chuckle. She'd cleared his empty plate and replaced it with a slice of yellow cake with chocolate frosting and colorful sprinkles. "Is today your birthday, Davy?"

"Uh . . . How did you know?" he asked, his brows raised in surprise.

"I was just guessing. It's from the young woman who just left," she explained.

"What's her name?"

"Not sure. She pays with cash, but she's been around about as long as you have. She either lives or works somewhere nearby because she usually comes in early for coffee—about like you do, except she seems to work a different shift. I'm surprised you've not run into each other." The waitress cocked her head to the side. "Would you like a candle? You probably wouldn't want to hear me try and sing to you though."

Bruce grinned and rolled his eyes. "No, I'm good. She's probably just thanking me for helping her friend out at the clinic."

"That's probably it, but maybe you shouldn't look at a piece of gift cake too close and just eat it."

So he did.

Natasha watched her mark from the shadows as he looked for her and then spoke to the waitress before eating the cake. "Happy Birthday, Doc," she whispered.

"Didn't they tell you in spy school not to feed the mark unless you plan to seduce him?" asked a masculine voice behind and above her.

"Didn't they teach you not to freeze your ass off on a fire escape when you could be waiting someplace a lot warmer?" A dark figure in an insulated Kevlar suit landed lightly beside her in the alley, but he still made a crunch on the refrozen ice and snow. That made her smile. "Are you here to help me or just give me a hard time over my methodology, Barton?"

"I would never question your methods, but that," the archer pointed to the scientist at the counter enjoying his birthday cake, "that may have bumped up to a line you don't want to cross." She simply stared back at her favorite partner because she knew that might be true. Clint saw he'd made his point and continued on, "Phil sent me to get you. Fury is hearing rumors out of Central Europe about a buildup of weapons in Hungary, and we volunteered to check it out."

"Oh, we did? Who's going to watch my guy here?" She gestured back to the diner with a tilt of her head.

"We'll have you back in place by the weekend. Althea will keep an eye on him till then."

She nodded, "What are we waiting for? I hear Budapest is lovely this time of year."

25 October 2011—three years, ten months, and one week later.

He could smell the fresh pot of coffee before he even opened the door. Someone had broken into his office. There weren't very many people who had that much gall. As he repressed a growl, his hand found its way to his M1911, a gun the military had given up using in 1986. He didn't continue to carry it out of a sense of nostalgia, but because he hated the idea of change. General Thunderbolt Ross just didn't do change.

"General Ross, come in already," an almost cheery voice rang out from behind his desk as he cautiously pushed the door open with his left hand. American-made pistol at the ready in his right.

"Agent Romanoff," he growled. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" He saw the redhead's hand was mere centimeters away from her own gun, a snub-nosed Glock 26. Foreigner.

"I made coffee." She smiled pleasantly and held up her cup, the one with his name on it, picking up her gun and holstering it as she walked over to his coffee pot. She refilled her cup and took a sip. "Would you like a cup?"

"Sure." He didn't think she'd poison him. Not even the Black Widow had balls that big. There was no way she'd be able to erase her presence completely from the base and get away with it.

"You haven't answered my question," he said flatly as he took the mug of strong Colombian blend she offered him.

"Oh?" She walked back over toward his computer.

He followed close behind. What had she found?

"I'm here to deliver a message." She reached out and touched his arm sympathetically, "I'm afraid you won't like it very much." She reached over and adjusted the angle of the monitor so he could see it.

God Damn it! She'd found Banner's Bio-Tech Force Enhancement Project files!

Ross decided to play it cool. Surely, she didn't know about the files his team had hacked and stolen from S.H.I.E.L.D. earlier in the year before the shit show at Culver, "What's the problem, Romanoff? I'm just keeping up with a possible threat, one for whom I feel some responsibility."

She looked at him and sighed, "Thaddeus, I'm going to play this straight with you. I've just come in from a very long, aggravating mission where I had to deal with a bunch of people who didn't like to listen to reason. I really hope you're not about to be one of those because I have an overwhelming urge to beat someone to a bloody pulp, and I would hate to lose my temper and that be you. Then I'd have to deal with body disposal, which would be frustrating, but eh," she shrugged, "after the month I've had… Well, that'd just be icing on the cake, now, wouldn't it?"

"What is your point?" he asked gruffly.

"I know that you aren't stupid, and you know that S.H.I.E.L.D. has tabs on Dr. Banner. We don't need or want you or your team's interference, accidental or otherwise, to cause another 'incident.' I know that if you keep on with your 'investigation,' you will cause something messy. I also know this is something you want because you'll take any excuse to bring Banner in." Her green eyes turned as dark as her tone, "Get in the way, and I will make you pay." Natasha pulled a flash drive out of his computer and set her empty cup next to the coffee pot. She pulled the office door open and turned to face him. "Thank you, General, for your cooperation," and out the door she went.

Ross rushed to his computer, "No! No! No! NO! NO!" Everything was wiped. All the years' worth of information he'd collected on Banner and the project was gone. He could feel his chest tightening as his blood pressure hit the roof, and he began to wheeze out his breaths. Every. Damn. Bit. Oh, SHE was going to pay!

Natasha smiled to herself as she walked down the hall; hearing Ross lament his losses was sweet music to her ears. One thing she hadn't told him was that while she downloaded his files (taken them back, really), she'd left a very stealthy, but effective spyware program that was burrowing deeper and deeper into his private files and inside his unit's network to keep tabs him. Soon, he and his cronies wouldn't have many secrets left to share. Considering he'd stolen nearly all of his recent intelligence on Banner from S.H.I.E.L.D.—mostly her own fieldwork and assessments, by the way—just before the incident at Culver University and the Battle of Harlem, it was only fair that she'd returned the favor. He really ought to do something to get that temper and his high blood pressure under control before he had a heart attack over his obsession with the good doctor. The sooner old Thunderbolt understood she'd won and she was in this for the long haul, the better off he'd be.

28 March 2015—three years, four months, and three days later.

Nat was alone, sitting far closer to the edge of the roof of Stark Tower than most people would dare, railing or not. She had her arms slumped over the bottom rail, chin balanced on her hands, staring at the bright city lights stretching out around them. A few minutes later, she knew she was no longer alone.

"You're awfully hard to find when you don't want to be found, you know that?" Bruce pulled up a chair and sat down beside her.

She turned her head to look at him, her face never leaving her hands, "We always manage to find each other." She gave him a wan smile, happy that he'd taken to homing in on her.

"I kind of like that about us." Bruce reached out and brushed a strand of pale hair that had blown free back in place behind her ear.

"Me, too."

He gave her one of those wry off-center smiles of his, an expression that he and his alter ego shared. "Clint said your mission went to shit."

Nat sighed, "That's one way of putting it."

It sounded like she didn't want to go into it just yet, so Bruce cocked his head to the side as he thought about how to bring a different subject up. "You know, I realized something while you were gone."

She picked her head up and shook out her hair as another gust of wind blew through her temporarily blonde locks, which she'd dyed for the mission.

"I never did thank you for that piece of cake you bought me for my birthday back in Detroit."

She laughed and smiled brightly, "Took me dying my hair for you to realize who I was, didn't it?"

He chuckled and stretched his arms over his head as he looked out over the city. "Hit me out of the blue while you were gone, and I was working in the lab. I have to admit, I felt kind of stupid. That was what? More than seven years ago?"

"Seven years, two months, and ten days. I did say, 'We kept our distance.'"

"You did. I just didn't realize you meant the 'we' was you," he said softly as he settled in a little closer with his hands resting on the rail beside hers, right and left pinkies nearly touching.

"I do like to give the personal touch." She ran her right fingers over his left before interlocking them together. "Besides, most of the time I was the only one who could find you."

He picked her hand up and brought it to his lips, gently kissing her fingers, hoping she would be okay with that. "You know what that means?" She looked questioningly at him, "We must belong together. I mean we do share a birthday together now and then."

She giggled at him, feeling better just because he was there and happy that he was okay with her watching over him all this time. "Bruce, you're such a dork."

He blushed, but kept ahold of her hand. "Don't chicks dig that?"

She smiled up into those brown eyes with their occasional sparks of green that had intrigued her since the first time she'd looked into them, "Doc, you wouldn't be wrong."

End Note: We hope you enjoyed this little Birthday and Thanksgiving Present. Tell us if you spotted the references/Easter eggs. Please leave a comment and/or review. We both love talking about the OTP and answering questions. If you want more, go check out our other works!