The Town
Heavy skies threaten to unleash a torrent of rain upon the town, sending a few drops splattering on the cobblestone street. A low rumble in the distance urges listeners to take shelter before the storm, and in the town with a population of less than 1,000, its occupants have heeded the warning. At least half the shops have come to a consensus for an early closure, and by five o'clock, the streets are nearly empty.
In an old, derelict part of town, Tony Stark stands in front of a small bakery, oblivious to the impending storm. His clothes are tattered and torn, shoes muddied with the soles worn out. He stares at the shop's display of pastries as the tantalizing smell of freshly baked bread wafts by, stomach grumbling.
When was the last time he had an éclair? In fact, when was the last time he had anything that wasn't stale, moldy, or out of the trash?
The train of thought is derailed by a tremendous crack of thunder overhead. In the overcast skies, the swollen dam groans and releases a flood of rain.
He breaks into a run, racing through winding roads, sprinting past signs with black, faded letters that meld together in the haze of rain, and ducks under low-hanging branches as feet trample overgrown grass instead of stone. By the time he reaches the shelter he calls home, he is drenched and panting.
"The day I get rich," he manages breathlessly to a wide-eyed Natasha. "I'm having a hundred éclairs."
With that, he collapses on a pile of straw in exhaustion.
The next night in the barn marks their two-week anniversary of freedom, fourteen days on the run. They've navigated their way through a dense forest, avoided potentially dangerous encounters with grizzly bears, played hide-and-seek with the academy's goons in the last city they were at, and finally arrived at a sleepy little town. It is cause for celebration, and the celebratory feast consists of a partial loaf of bread, an overripe banana, a half-eaten chocolate bar, and a handful of deep purple grapes.
It is a significant upgrade from bread crusts, and the meagre collection disappears within seconds.
"I don't see how you can steal, but you won't go begging with me," He states from where he lazes on the dusty ground, chewing on a straw. "What's honour in the face of death? Would you rather starve if begging was the only option?" He gives a slight frown at the thought and rolls over onto his stomach. "It's a matter of survival. There's no shame in begging."
"And there's no shame in stealing," she replies with a pointed look. "Matter of survival."
"Deflection," he says quickly. "I never said there was shame in stealing."
She scowls.
He rolls onto his back again, resting his head on his hands. "I don't have a problem with stealing to eat just like I don't have a problem with begging to ensure our survival." He rubs the rough texture of the straw against his tongue, staring up at the wooden beams of the ceiling. "But it's not really the begging that you have a problem with, is it, Nat?"
He hears her flinch in the silence.
"You know," he continues. "It's kind of fun pretending to be a normal kid."
She doesn't reply. As they are scooping out beds in the straw, she asks, "You think they'll treat us like freaks if they know the truth?"
He thinks there is a high probability.
"Maybe not," he replies.
Stories ran rampant through the student body back in the academy, tales of people like them who met fates worse than death, having fallen into the hands of those with intentions to use their skills for foul purposes. Natasha had scoffed when she'd heard the tales, but he hadn't missed the glimmer of distress in her eyes behind the mockery. Her past is a violent tale of its own.
He lies in the bed he's made hours later, listening to her gentle, rhythmic breathing as crickets sing a lullaby. Maybe, just maybe, it will be a night of uninterrupted sleep for her.
Through the open doorway, the flat lands are bathed in soft light from the full moon; he thinks it just might be too bright to fall asleep tonight.
The next morning, they find a surprise stumbling about in the barn. A stray puppy, poking its wet nose into the bed of straw, stops its playful exploration when it catches sight of them, staring with brown, beseeching eyes.
Tony adopts it immediately. Natasha names it Nijinsky.
When it digs out a red ballet shoe hidden in a clump of hay, Natasha snatches it away, waving the slightly chewed-up shoe at the puppy. "Bad," she says sternly in Russian. It lets out a whine of protest.
By the end of the week, they have adopted another canine, this one hiding out in a drain with matted fur and a bloody, mangled ear. It snarls and snaps and watches them warily as it wolfs down morsels of food. Natasha calls it Alyi after its reddish-brown coat.
When the third week comes around, a black mangy cat becomes their newest adoption; on that Tuesday, someone adopts them.
The Ragamuffin
Whenever thirty-four-year-old Bruce Banner is made to take time off from his job, his first inclination is to set out for a town with a small population. Cities have a myriad of distractions and cacophony of noise that jerk him in every direction. Old towns, on the other hand, especially small ones, are the opposite. Unlike cities with their obnoxious attractions, they don't demand attention to be paid to them. Only the observant notice uniqueness etched on its paths and history written on its walls.
Bruce rounds the corner, mulling over these thoughts, when a ruckus shakes him from his reverie.
On the ground, three boys are in a brawl. It's a tussle of two against one, and the one isn't faring too well.
"Hey!" He raises his voice, quickening his stride. "Cut it out!"
His yell accomplishes nothing. He didn't think it would.
"I said cut it out!" He dives in, pulling the two big-boned boys away.
The larger of the two howls with rage and starts in as if to launch himself back into the fight, but a threatening look stops him in his footsteps. Bruce may be mild-mannered and quiet by nature, but he has practiced a mean stare since young to keep bullies away, and with his height and build, he poses an intimidating figure. Growling, the lad spits vehemently to the side and runs off, his friend following right behind.
Bruce shakes his head and helps the boy up.
The kid has to be about seven or eight years old, though it's hard to tell with children and their growing process. He has on two over-sized shirts with sleeves up to his elbows, multiple dirt stains and tears in the top one. Shaggy brown hair nearly covers his eyes, and blood trickles from a cut on his temple.
Bruce frowns at the wound. "That needs to be taken care of."
The boy scowls and takes a step back.
"Relax," Bruce says, holding his arms out in a non-threatening gesture to prevent the kid from bolting like a scared rabbit. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to take a look at that cut on your head. It needs to be cleaned or else it might get infected, and trust me, you don't want that to happen."
The boy continues to stare in blatant mistrust, but he stays in place.
"Tell you what. You let me take a look at that cut, and I'll treat you to a free meal. Whatever you want to eat." Bruce lifts a brow. "Deal?"
The kid cocks his head as if considering the offer. Still viewing him with suspicion, he asks, "Can my cousin come too?"
When Bruce agrees, the boy plops himself down on a nearby bench and reluctantly allows the injury to be examined. It turns out to be a surface wound that doesn't require stitches. Flipping open the canvas flap of his messenger bag, Bruce rummages for his first aid kit.
"You a doctor?"
"Sort of," he answers vaguely as he tears open a packet of non-woven gauze. "I do different things. I fish, visit small towns, help kids like you." He smiles slightly. "It's a fun job."
It doesn't take long to staunch the bleeding since it's a minor cut. Pulling out the non-alcoholic wipes, he begins cleaning the area around the wound. "You feeling okay? No dizziness, nothing?"
"Fine," his patient mumbles, swinging dusty feet in impatience.
"I'm Bruce, by the way."
"Edward."
"That's a good name." He comments. "Done, and done!" He announces with a flourish as he sticks a Band-Aid on the treated cut. "So, Edward, why were those kids pounding on you?"
The boy stands, bangs falling into his eyes. "Cus I'm smaller than them."
"And they do that often? Beat you up?"
"Sometimes. I'm a fast runner." He pauses. "Sometimes my cousin helps, and we get away."
"Your cousin is bigger-sized and punches them for you?"
Edward wrinkles his nose. "Something like that."
The Orphans
The small retro-styled café advertises with peeling wallpaper and country rock music. Worn vinyl fabric of red and white covers the benches, and the square table bears coffee stains. Seated opposite him in a booth are two silent, barefooted children with dishevelled hair. Baggy shirts hang on skinny frames, likely hand-me-downs from older siblings or possessed from some charity bin.
Bruce clears his throat, folds his arms, and gingerly rests them on the table top. "So," he starts. "It's Edward and…Natalie, right?"
Startled green eyes blink.
Edward, with the Band-Aid on his left temple, sniffs and rubs his nose with the back of his hand. "She's shy around strangers. Doesn't talk much. She's better at home."
Bruce makes a face. "Yeah, I'm not that fond of strangers myself either."
Natalie doesn't respond and begins fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers at the side. Edward coughs and shifts in his seat, grimacing.
"Listen," Bruce scratches the side of his head, scrambling for a way to broach a subject that has been on his mind. "It's kind of ironic seeing that I'm a stranger, but you really should be careful who you talk to and where you go with people you don't know." He pushes up his frameless glasses in an awkward motion. "There're some pretty bad people out there."
Society can make a fuss about equality and how status makes no difference, but he knows better; it is way too easy for a child on the streets to slip under the radar. Possessing street smarts doesn't prevent child abductions and human trafficking.
The kids exchange a look. Natalie's lips twitch, and Edward grins outright.
Bruce frowns, perplexed at the unexpected response.
"Nat and I can take care of ourselves," Edward says reassuringly, as if reading his mind. "It's easy to tell the bad ones from the good ones. You're a good one."
Bruce raises his brows. "You can tell?"
"Yeah."
The boy doesn't offer more, attention diverted by approaching trays loaded with dishes. Awe-struck expressions appear at the arrival of steaming bowls of soup, large pieces of baguette slathered with butter, generous portions of shepherd's pie, and two tall, cold, chocolate milkshakes.
Bruce stifles a smile, expecting them to jump right into action. Instead, wide eyes, too large for little dirt-streaked faces, stare at him, as if waiting for permission.
He blinks. "You don't need me to say go, do you?"
Close to an hour later, with tummies satisfied and hunger sated, the kids wave a goodbye and speed off.
That night, an insistent knocking wakes him from a dream involving shawarma shacks, anti-electron collisions, and Stephen Hawking. He squints groggily in the darkness, trying to get his bearings as the knocks register in his brain. With a groan, he blindly fishes for his glasses on the bedside table and stumbles out of bed. Still in a sleepy haze, he shuffles to the door.
It swings open to reveal a little red-headed girl with drawn features, rambling incoherent sentences in English and Russian about some guy named Tony.
"Natalie?" He mumbles. "What's wrong? What—" He pauses. It dawns upon him that he's standing in the bedroom with a kid in the hallway. He stares at her, all traces of drowsiness vanished, and in a voice pitched higher than usual, utters, "How did you get in the house?"
The Recovery
Tony Stark doesn't know where he is or what time it is. Dimly lit lamps hang overhead the queen-sized bed with soft sheets and a small mound of pillows. By the bedside, faint rays of light filter through the blinds. He pushes aside the covers, noticing at once that his dirty, ragged shirts are missing. Rolling over to the side of the bed, he sits up. Feet touch cool, wood-panelled floor. He walks past an ascending stairway surrounded on both sides by glass panels to a long pine table with wooden benches and chairs that look like chunks of tree logs.
He touches the edge of one tentatively; it feels like the cracked bark of a tree trunk.
"Tony?"
He whirls around.
Natasha stands on the stairs in a white tee shirt that reaches to her knees, one hand on the slender railing, the other wrapped around a purring Liho. Her face is scrubbed clean, scarlet hair lying in damp tendrils around her shoulders.
He blinks, suddenly self-conscious of his partial nakedness and unwashed state. His hand creeps up to his bare chest, making a surreptitious effort to hide the glowing arc reactor from her view. It shouldn't bother him. She knows it's there; she's seen it before. But it does. Troubled, he lowers himself on one of the chairs, folds his arms on the lacquered surface of the table, and rests his chin on them, shielding his physical abnormality from her.
The discomfort eases. He lets out his breath.
A soft pattering ensures, and there is Liho at his feet, tail swaying lazily as it weaves around his ankles. He scratches the black cat behind the ears, earning a pleased mew as it pushes its face into the palm of his hand.
"Bruce says you'll be okay."
He glances up at her. She sits on the third step to the bottom, shoulders hunched, looking as despondent as the first time he saw her at the academy.
"You passed out, so I went to get help," she says in a faltering voice. "I had to tell him."
He doesn't know which emotion he feels the strongest; relief, curiosity, and fear runs and melds together.
"I was scared."
She whispers words; he hears shame.
Silence descends on the room. The cool air makes goosebumps rise on his skin.
Liho saunters back to Natasha, gracefully leaping up the steps, and settles on her lap.
He walks over to the stairway and sits beside her. "Thank you," he says.
Bruce checks up on them half an hour later. He tells them he works for an organization called Shield. They tell him their real names. They regard him with solemnity when he assures them no one will send them back to the academy. He jokes that the dogs are eating him out of the house and crosses his eyes behind his glasses; they laugh.
The Family
Saturday morning arrives with blue skies, scattered clouds, and the suggestion of an outing. The day before had been unpleasant with the children appearing before a panel of select members of Shield, including Director Fury. Everybody wanted answers, and no one was willing to give them. No one could but the kids, and both of them were as tight-lipped as oysters. Tony, with a pale face and set mouth, had positioned himself in front of Natasha during the questioning, as if they were the condemned before a firing squad.
Bruce would have been intimidated too if he were in their shoes, so when the weekend arrives, he decides that they should visit the nearby park.
"Why?" Tony asks bluntly, sporting a milk moustache over his upper lip. "What sort of activities will we have? Is it mostly sports-oriented, because I don't do well at sports. I mostly just mess around with electronics. Nat's the one who kicks ass."
Bruce sends him a look of disapproval. "Language."
Nijinsky interrupts the conversation by trying to take a bite out of Natasha's toast, spilling juice all over the table in the process.
"Koshmarik," Natasha says and shakes her head.
They pile into the Buick and stop at a store carrying a variety of kites. Tony browses through the options, badgering the salesman with endless questions about aerodynamics and structures until Bruce is sure they'll be sued for harassment. The precocious eight-year-old, rambling about intersecting planes and stability, finally settles on a red and gold kite shaped like an atom.
Natasha lags behind, watching with mild interest. When Bruce asks her which one she likes, she gazes up at him with furrowed brows.
"I don't need one," she tells him, confusion clouding emerald eyes.
He tries to explain that while he understands she doesn't need a kite, he wants to get one for her, and unlike the academy's Sponsors, his gesture doesn't require anything in return.
When they leave the store five minutes later, Natasha cradles a classic diamond-shaped kite of red with a flowing tail streaked with black.
At the park, they find an open spot close to a family of six with a constantly barking golden retriever, and Bruce shows them how to operate their most recent purchases. Tony hops up and down excitedly when his kite shoots up in the air; Natasha grins as hers takes off after his.
When a blue kite in the sky nose-dives and ends up tangled in the branches of an oak tree, they see its owner, a little boy in denim overalls, near tears as his perturbed father stares helplessly at the trapped object, arms akimbo.
Natasha hands her reel over to Tony and shimmers up the tree, disappearing into the crown before Bruce can utter his objection. Within a minute, she emerges with prize in hand, quiet pride in her eyes. Tony advises the father-and-son duo to add a single-streamer tail at least eight times the length of the kite to prevent another potential nose-dive.
"You've got great kids," the father tells Bruce in amazement.
In the afternoon, as they pass by a bicycle rental on the way to the hot dog vendor, Bruce feels a tug on his plaid shirt.
Tony gazes meaningfully at Natasha, who has stopped to stare at kids performing tailwhips and barspins on their bikes.
"Are they training?" He asks in earnest.
"No," Bruce replies. Not the kind of training they'd gotten in the academy, at least.
When they return home, Natasha bears the scars of taking too many sharp turns and tumbling off the bike. There had been a glimpse of tears, but they hadn't been tears of pain, only frustration after falling.
Bruce dresses her wounds as gently as possible, noting a particularly nasty scrape on her knee. He asks if it hurts; she responds with distant eyes and the stoic expression of one who has had worse. He looks down with a clenched jaw and finishes tending to her wounds.
Tony announces that they should end the day with pizza, and they build it from scratch instead of ordering in. Bruce assigns them with making the dough as he slices capsicums, mushrooms, tomatoes, and zucchini. When the pizza is in the oven, floured faces smeared with tomato sauce peek with curiosity at the bubbling mozzarella.
They watch The Wizard of Oz during dinner. Tony claims the nickname of Tin Man; Natasha stares intently at the screen as Dorothy, with red shoes on her feet, returns to her family by clicking her heels three times and repeating the phrase, "There's no place like home."
The house is quiet when the hour hand touches ten. Bruce sits on the couch, watching the news at a low volume, when movement on the second floor catches his attention. Natasha totes an armful of pets across the hallway in the opposite direction of her room. He clears his throat, sending her a mock stern glance; she flinches, expecting chastisement.
He breaks into a fond smile instead and reminds her it's past her bedtime.
The Child
Tony Stark is trying to make himself taller. Not for any noble reason, unless trying to get a better reach on the ice-cream in the freezer counts. It's movie night in the Banner house, which means they need sugar to go with the films. He stretches on tip-toes and digs further into the freezer, for the moment ignoring the question asked.
His hand closes around a tub, and he pulls it out in triumph.
Cookies N' Cream.
"Why wouldn't she be?" He finally answers, adding a nonchalant smile for good measure. "And about eye circles, I've read that some people get them even if they have eight hours every night."
The scientist fixes him with a scrutinizing gaze. "You're sure you don't know what's going on with Natasha?"
Tony runs his thumbnail over the edge of the tub, scraping ice off onto the floor. Lying to his adoptive parent makes him uncomfortable, but to confess that Natasha hasn't been able to sleep through the night would be a betrayal. In her eyes, the need for company to get through the night constitutes as a weakness; she would hate for Bruce to think of her as weak.
"You made good borsch today," he says. "Nat liked it."
Bruce sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. The sound of resignation makes Tony squirm.
"It's something she doesn't want me to know."
It's a statement, not a question.
Outsiders can't tell – sometimes not even the subject of affection himself – but Natasha adores Bruce as much as Tony does despite the reserved behaviour. They come from different backgrounds, and it's natural for both of them to respond differently to a new presence in their lives. Tony hasn't felt the loss of his parents before; Natasha has. He doesn't blame her for not wanting a repeat experience.
He shifts his feet and holds out the ice-cream tub. "Help me make sundaes?"
In the den, the television casts flickering colours on the furniture. Natasha lounges on a large green beanbag, Liho at her feet and Alyi on the rug. He hands her a bowl of ice-cream topped with tiny marshmallows, rainbow sprinkles, and an abundance of chocolate fudge, waving Nijinsky away, who paws at his thigh in hopes of a treat.
"Bruce?" Natasha asks carefully.
"Work," he answers, plopping onto a second beanbag. "And he says we've watched the Home Alone series too many times. He's memorized the plot of every movie."
"We could watch The Wizard of Oz or AI."
"He belts out Somewhere Over The Rainbow in his sleep, and AI makes him too emotional."
"When the mom leaves David in the forest," she mumbles, sticking a spoonful of ice-cream in her mouth. "That's the worst."
Tony thinks it's the portrayal of artificial intelligence and not the protagonist's journey of attaining real-live-boy status that makes Bruce emotional.
Natasha falls asleep halfway through Home Alone 2, nestled in the beanbag. He isn't sure when he nods off, but when he wakes, the ending credits are rolling off the screen. The music fades out, leaving behind restless sounds of fidgeting.
He sits up and blinks sleep from his eyes, recognizing the signs of Natasha having a nightmare.
The bad dreams don't always occur, but the few times they have are enough to keep her awake. The day they fled the school was the first time he witnessed her having a nightmare; she'd rolled over, and with a faint voice, told him to get back to sleep. He only discovered how much it affects her when she came to his room the night Bruce took them in, asking with lowered eyes if she could spend the night on his floor. He'd taken the couch and let her have the bed. He never asked how she managed to pass the nights back at the academy.
"Nat." He reaches over and shakes her gently. "Nat, wake up."
While that's usually enough to get her back to consciousness, this time she quivers and curls into a tight ball, fists tucked into her sides. Her face glistens in the low lighting of the den.
His stomach tightens. He gives her shoulder a rougher jostle. "Natasha."
She pulls away from his grasp, whimpering. Alyi growls from the shadows, Nijinsky whines in distress, and Liho hisses in warning. Then with a shudder, she jerks awake.
Tony has known Natasha for over three years. He's seen her lash out in anger, mask pain with condescension, and strut about campus with independence in her stride. He's heard her whisper in fear, swear out of frustration, and laugh with mischief.
But he has never seen her like he sees her now: pale, broken, and distraught, damp eyes glazing over in terror.
Stumbling to his feet with heart hammering in his chest, he flies up the steps towards the light in the study and bursts through the door, where a taken-aback Bruce in a faded tee and grey sweatpants stares at him from behind a desk stacked with papers. Without a word, Tony grabs his hand, yanking him off the chair, and lugs him down to the den.
What he can't fix, maybe the parent can.
Natasha takes one look at Bruce, draws a tremulous breath, and bursts into heart-wrenching sobs.
Tony clutches the railing until his knuckles turn white, pulse throbbing in his throat.
Bruce's face softens in compassion. He stoops down beside her in the same non-threatening manner he had when he first met them, cups her head with his hands, murmuring comforting words, and wipes her tears. When she reaches for his shirt, burying her face in the crook of his neck, he picks her up, arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist, and carries her to the two-seater couch, where he rubs gentle circles on her back, humming in a low, rumbling voice.
The sobs subside, reducing to sniffles and hiccups. Tony, heart resuming its normal pace, emerges from behind the stair spindles and joins them on the couch, wriggling in next to Bruce. "She'll be all right, won't she?" he asks, looking worriedly at the tear-stained face of his worn out friend.
Bruce brushes Natasha's red locks from her forehead. The child breathes out a soft sigh.
"You know, Tin Man," Bruce looks at him with an affectionate smile. "I think we'll be just fine."
End
A/N: Nijinsky was one of the greatest Russian ballet dancers. Koshmarik means "Little Nightmare" in Russian.