I've been plotting this oneshot for weeks now. I finally wrote it down, and the inestimable blueincandescence lent a hand with the editing like the fantastic writer and person that she is. Thank you, my dear. (Check out her BruceNat fic, "The Professor," on this site or AO3, by the way. Looking for some fantastic fic writing? Look no further.)

Without any further ado… allow me to present: BruceNat fun. :D

Party Trick

"Sorry, kids, you don't get to see my party trick after all."

In the years since her first mission as an agent for the Red Room, Natasha had been able to count the number of times she'd called for backup on one hand. She worked best as a solo act, she was sure, despite her recent(ish) foray into the world of teamwork. Whenever that concept became a little stifling, she just reminded herself that although the Avengers had elected Captain America as their leader and followed his orders in the field, they were still much more a group of solo artists than a proper band. (Captain America and the Avengers… it kind of had a ring to it, like an old school Big Band. She'd have to tease Steve about that sometime.) Usually she was a one-woman act, and usually she received what amounted to a standing ovation for her work because she was good. But what many people failed to realize was that her kind of lethal reputation was a door that had three hinges: skill, fact, and luck. Tonight luck just wasn't smiling on her, and the suspicion that she was going to have to add a sixth finger to the screwup count was rapidly turning into a certainty.

It was also possible that diving into a spur of the moment undercover op without telling anyone had been a poorly thought out decision. Clint probably would have noticed her restlessness and frustration with Jarvis' inadequate files on Wolfgang von Strucker and warned her against hasty action without consulting the team if he hadn't already been en route to visit his family. She almost resented him for being out of reach when she needed a hand, but Lila and Cooper's smiles floated through her mind and she couldn't commit to the feeling. And she couldn't blame him for her bad decision; the truth was that she had been bored out of her mind, the files were incomplete, Jarvis got a hit on the facial recognition search they'd started running on Strucker… and her inability to do anything in the way of spy work since her decision to dump all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files onto the internet was beginning to wear her down from frustration into something that felt uncomfortably close to uselessness.

Stupid, she reprimanded herself. Unprofessional.

(Sloppy.)

She glanced around at the lavish party, took in the twinkling lights and the glitter of outrageously expensive jewelry, inhaled the spicy, sweet, and tangy scents that wafted from a dozen platters bobbing around the room on silver trays held aloft by immaculate waiters… and identified the five or so armed operatives who were discreetly blocking the exits. Strucker himself had melted into the crowd a few minutes prior, probably gliding right through one of those exits that was now off-limits to her.

She had a gun tucked into the bodice of her sparkling gown, and a pair of knives strapped against her thighs, but elegant evening wear didn't exactly leave room for a lot else. She missed her bracelets fiercely; the ability to stun a few people with a concentrated blast of electricity would really come in handy right about now. But it was a waste of time to consider what she didn't have, so she let the thought float away and focused instead on one of the many secrets of successful undercover work: maintaining a facade without a single ripple on its surface.

So she watched the operatives surreptitiously as she made her way onto the small stage and found her place in front of the jazz band seated there. The plastic mesh of Photostatic Veil itched, but she ignored it and smiled at the milling party crowd with the face of the singer she was impersonating. The drummer counted off behind her, and with a wash of cymbals and shimmering chords, the band began the introduction for "Summertime." She smiled demurely as every pair of eyes turned toward her false face, took a breath to begin the first verse, and discreetly rolled the earpiece she held between her fingers until she felt the single button click.

Bruce tapped the words Run Trial that hovered on the enormous touchscreen monitor hanging from the ceiling of Tony's lab and breathed a sigh of relief. He had walked into Tony's lab with the intention of tinkering with his Tetrodotoxine B formula for a few minutes while he was free and then taking advantage of the empty Tower to catch up on some reading he'd been neglecting, but he was pretty sure the sun had been up when he started and now… it wasn't. He straightened from the hunched posture he had a bad habit of slipping into when he was concentrating and winced at the sharp pops the action caused. His wristwatch looked blurred after staring at screens for an indeterminate amount of time; he blinked twice and tried again.

He'd been in here "tinkering" for five hours. That seemed about right, given the pain in his back. And his shoulders. And his neck. And his feet.

"Getting old, Banner," he muttered to himself, his gaze slipping back to the monitor's progress bar. Ten percent. He sighed and pushed his glasses up to rub at his eyes. He should probably think about eating something…

A single, soft beep bled into the quiet of the lab. Bruce replaced his glasses and glanced back at his screen. It wasn't an indicator for anything he was working on… The beep filled the room for another moment before fading back into uneasy silence. Bruce felt an uncomfortable prickle between his shoulder blades. That beep sounded a little too insistent to be unimportant. He took a cautious step towards Tony's master control panel, scanning for any incoming messages or alerts.

"Tony," he muttered, "Tell me you didn't leave something dangerous running again…"

"He didn't, sir," came Jarvis' pleasant, omniscient voice from all around. Bruce had grown so used to Jarvis' uncanny presence that he barely jumped. "I apologize if I startled you, Dr. Banner."

"I'm fine," Bruce replied absently, his eyes returning to the hundreds of lights and indicators that covered Tony's control panel like a swarm of bees. At the moment, only one was flashing.

"Are you certain? Your heart rate is a bit elevated-"

"I'm fine," he repeated, staring at the blinking red light. "Um, Jarvis?"

"Yes, sir?"

He had a feeling he was going to regret this next question, but one couldn't afford to ignore flashing red lights when one lived with Tony Stark. "What does this light mean?"

Jarvis went silent for a beat longer than usual, as though he too had to puzzle it out. Bruce felt less thrilled than ever.

"I believe that is a distress call, sir. It isn't the usual means, but this is a specially modified signal."

"Source?" Bruce asked with a growing sense of dread. Tony was out of the country on Stark Industries business, Thor was back in England with Jane Foster, and Clint had disappeared earlier that day for "vacation" (whatever that meant for spies-turned-Avengers). There were very few of the Avengers on hand for unexpected emergencies.

"The signal is broadcasting from Ms. Romanoff's earpiece," Jarvis replied in his usual businesslike tone. "Would you like me to triangulate her location?"

"Yes." The word fell from his lips almost before he felt the swell of fear behind his sternum. It was a violent enough sensation that his blood tingled with the danger of an "incident" (which was perhaps the politest way he'd ever heard of saying "a monstrous transformation") and he had to take several deep breaths to ensure there was no danger before he could fumble in the pocket of his lab coat for his phone. His list of favorite numbers was short enough that he didn't have to scroll through it to find the name he needed.

Tony Stark

Natasha Romanoff

Steve Rogers

He tapped Steve's name. The line connected - and went straight to Steve's non-personalized voicemail. "Steve," he said while trying very hard not to grit his teeth in frustration, "Call me when you get this. It's kind of an emergency." He hung up and stared at the phone in despair. Of all times for Steve to have his phone turned off… or maybe it had died again. He forgot to charge it sometimes.

"Jarvis, can you locate Captain Rogers?" he asked, and was dismayed when he could clearly hear the undercurrent of tension in his voice. Keep it together, he told himself harshly. An unscheduled Code Green helps no one. Especially not without Natasha. His heart sped up again as the tension formed a hard knot in his stomach. He focused on breathing deeply and evenly.

"He is not wearing an earpiece currently, so I'm afraid not," Jarvis replied with a hint of regret. Bruce felt the tension move towards panic.

Okay, Banner, think…

"Where is she?"

"In a hotel, sir. In one of the convention spaces, it would seem."

"Show me."

A map blossomed from one of the holographic displays built into the floor and Bruce pushed up his glasses as he stared at the image. "Not far," he muttered. Definitely not far enough, if he was seriously considering going in there… It was right in the middle of Manhattan, the nexus of millions of very breakable people… and he was about to walk in there and very probably unleash the Other Guy on a good chunk of them.

But what choice did he have?

Natasha needed help - she would never have called for assistance unless she was in serious trouble (he ignored the flash of terror that thought inspired).

There was no one to help.

Except him.

Bruce sighed heavily. "Jarvis," he began, and ignored the weariness that cracked his voice. "Can you get me there? Fast?"

"Yes, sir," Jarvis replied instantly. "And may I recommend a few items to take with you?"

"Sure," Bruce answered, and Jarvis began to recite his list.

"Code Green," Bruce muttered under his breath.

The set was almost over, and Natasha knew that once the band took a break, things were going to come to a very violent head. She scanned again for any sign of backup in the crowd, hoping she could sing in tune with minimal concentration, because that was all she could spare. She looked over everyone's heads, scanning for any sign of Steve (who conveniently towered over everyone). She didn't have to worry about looking for Tony; if the crowd parted, she would know he had arrived.

The band launched into the second verse of the final song of the set, and she kept looking. Maybe they hadn't received the signal. She channeled her energy into her alternate plans, and scanned the crowd as she smiled and sang. There was the old shoot-a-gun-into-the-air-and-flee-in-the-ensuing-panic trick. Success would be doubtful with so many pairs of eyes fixed on her, though. She could cross her fingers that they hadn't blocked the back door, but that was extremely unlikely. There was always the option of just shooting as many of them as possible and trying to run once the odds were a little better… but they were, in all likelihood, carrying Hydra tech. She suppressed a grimace.

Third and final verse. Running out of time.

The double doors of the main entrance to the grand ballroom opened just a crack and a single tuxedo-clad guest stepped haltingly inside. Natasha almost missed her cue for the coda because she would know that hesitant gait anywhere.

What the hell was Bruce doing here?

The song ended, the audience burst into appreciative applause, and Natasha cursed behind her smile as she took her bow.

It was definitely an elegant party, Bruce thought, whatever the occasion. He was faintly grateful that Jarvis had directed him to one of Tony's tuxedos before sending him in one of the autopilot enabled cars left over from the S.H.I.E.L.D. days. Changing in the backseat had been a little dicey, but the windows were tinted, at least. Focus, he chastised himself as he entered the dimly lit ballroom, complete with white-clothed tables, free-flowing champagne, silverware that might actually be silver, and a dance floor. There was a jazz band onstage with a knockout of a lead singer in a slinky dress that would have distracted him under any other set of circumstances. As it was, he concentrated on scanning the crowd for any sign of Natasha.

"Jarvis," he murmured, pressing one finger against his earpiece in an attempt to hear over the noise of the crowd. "I don't see her, can you help me out?"

"She's very close, sir. The signal is coming from your location, north end of the room," Jarvis directed.

"This way?" Bruce questioned, taking a step towards the stage and the crowd gathered in front of it. They burst into applause as the singer took her bow and slid offstage and out of sight.

"Yes, sir."

Bruce kept walking. "Am I getting warm?"

"Burning hot," came Natasha's voice beside him, and he turned… to find the singer, a woman he had never seen in his life.

"Um," said Bruce, trying to decide whether she could have altered her appearance so drastically. A S.H.I.E.L.D. report he'd once read on the subject of facial alteration using plastic veils surfaced from somewhere deep in his memory. "Are you wearing…" he gestured vaguely at his face, searching for the right term.

The Maybe-Natasha gave a frustrated huff and grabbed his forearm to drag him to the bar. "Hey handsome. Buy me a drink?" She flashed a megawatt smile and Bruce was so, so confused.

"Are you okay? We got a distress call…"

"Just do it," she hissed under her breath. She smiled flirtatiously and leaned close. "They're watching me," she whispered in his ear. "You don't know me. If they think I'm using you to buy time, they might grab only me and not you." She pulled back, smiled a very seductive smile and asked the bartender for a vodka martini. Bruce stared.

"Uh, what's the plan here?" he asked when her drink arrived. She took a sip and pretended to laugh at something he's said. It was terribly unnerving, especially when she leaned close, slid a hand suggestively up his arm, and whispered in his ear again.

"You leave before we have any big, green complications, and I escape from these Hydra thugs at the first opportunity."

He pulled back. "I'm not.. I can't… I'm not just leaving you," he protested as she calmly sipped her drink. Over her shoulder, he finally noticed that the security guard by the door looked very little like hired security and very much like a Hydra thug.

"Nice meeting you, stranger," she replied just loud enough to carry. "Glad you enjoyed the show." She smiled a very good imitation of a pleased smile, but Bruce just caught the tension in it. She slid away into the crowd. A moment later, the black-clad security man followed her.

Alone at the bar, Bruce gritted his teeth.

What now?

Natasha could feel the man tailing her as surely as she felt the chilly air against her skin and the solid weight of the gun pressed against her hip. She slid it free as she walked. They were closing in. She decided that bottlenecking the Hydra thugs was the best course of action, so she headed for the nearest outlet, a hallway that fed into an alley behind the hotel. Secluded was the way to go when trying to avoid civilian casualties. It's also a good way to die, her mind whispered. She shrugged the voice off and stepped into the cool, damp air of the alley. It was wet and the dumpsters smelled to high heaven, but she crouched beside one and trained her gun on the door.

The sounds of traffic bounced between the brick walls and made it impossible to hear with any precision; she saw the door open, but heard no sound. She squeezed off two shots and dropped both men bursting through the door before a pair of thick arms seized her from behind. She felt the pinch of a needle at her neck.

Damn acoustics, she thought, and her vision flickered to black.

Bruce trailed behind the enormous security man as inconspicuously as he could. He didn't spare Bruce even a glance. Invisibility was one of is primary skills, he supposed.

The security guard came to a halt just in front of a hallway near the stage, and settled there, facing the room. Bruce strayed off in another direction. Well, if they were blocking off that area, that was where he would find her. "Jarvis, can you confirm Natasha's position?" he whispered.

"Fifty feet away, Dr. Banner. Beyond the wall beside which you are standing. There is a hallway to your right."

"Yeah, a guarded hallway," he muttered, glancing at the watchful guard. He averted his gaze before the guard could look his way. "And a hotel full of civilians," he sighed, estimating that there were several hundred in the ballroom alone. If ever there was a no-win situation…

But he couldn't just leave her.

That's exactly what you should do, Banner, he thought in defeat. She can take care of herself. You walk in there and this situation goes from bad to national disaster. But Natasha was back there somewhere and this was Hydra and they were doing who-knows-what to her… Rebellion flooded his veins, hot and bitter.

Since when do I do what I should do? he shot back at himself, and stood up straight. He put on an unstable grin and stepped crookedly toward the guard. "Is this the way to the mens' room?" he slurred, hoping fervently he sounded drunk. The guard stared at him impassively. "Sure," he replied in a voice as flat as his expression.

"Thanks," Bruce nodded and made sure to stumble as he strode down the hall. He slipped into the first hallway that branched off the main outlet and listened for pursuit. There was only silence. After a moment, he heard something besides the distant murmur of party conversation, the whir of the air conditioner, and the heavy silence of the hall. He set his jaw and followed the sound of a few rough shouts... and a hand striking flesh.

It wasn't the first time Natasha had awakened to a slap in the face. Passing out while under "enhanced interrogation" wasn't exactly a first for her, and usually interrogators were none too gentle about bringing their subjects back around.

The interrogator in this case was unfortunately strong; her vision went white at each impact and she had to let her neck go limp enough to avoid unnecessary injury. She just hoped his slap-happy phase wouldn't last long. She wasn't overly confident about the durability of the Photostatic Veil. And if they found out they had the Black Widow… well, she would jump off that bridge when they came to it.

Her sight returned as the blood rushed to what she could feel was going to be a very angry handprint-shaped welt on her cheek. Lovely.

She looked at the owner of the handprint, a tall, well-muscled man with buzzed hair and an air of authority, and arranged her face into mild irritation. "That was rude," she muttered.

"As rude as crashing a private party?" he replied with an American accent that was a little too particular and square around the edges. She'd have to hear him speak a few more sentences to be sure, but she would bet money that he was as German as Strucker.

"I sang for my supper," she countered with a shrug. "I figured a few hors d'oeuvres wasn't too much to ask."

"But you were asking for more than hors d'oeuvres, weren't you, my dear?" Definitely German. Also, definitely annoying.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said blankly. "I just wanted to get some performing experience. And then those men in the alley jumped me… Ask the band - they'll tell you-"

"-lies," the annoying German interrupted. "What I would prefer to hear is the truth. From you."

"I told you the truth."

"Of course you did, my dear. But perhaps there is more truth to be found… we will see." He smiled a sickly sweet smile and Natasha felt a spark of disgust. He was one of the sickos who enjoyed this sort of thing. Well, this wasn't her first rodeo. He wasn't buying her story, so she might as well have a little fun. She shrugged.

"Do what you have to do," she replied serenely, and was very satisfied with the look of anger that crossed his face. He slapped her once more, hard, and backhanded this time.

"Was that necessary?" she muttered, shaking off the impact. He smiled grimly and turned to speak in low tones to his men. She knew their next move would be to get her out of here. Torturing the enemy wasn't exactly quiet work, and they couldn't take care of business in a downtown hotel. When they moved her, she could find an escape window, she was sure. Things were looking hopeful at last.

The door to their conference room banged open and another guard tromped in, dragging someone beside him. Natasha's stomach dropped.

Bruce.

Well, Bruce decided, this is humiliating.

His brilliant deception about being a drunk guy looking for a restroom wasn't so brilliant, it seemed. His wandering into the wrong place apparently confirmed any suspicions the Hydra thugs had held about his involvement, and he hadn't made it more than a few yards before yet another guard grabbed him.

He was hauled up by the collar and found himself facing a room full of black-clad, gun-toting meatheads. Natasha was tied to a chair against the far wall, meeting his gaze blankly. She didn't seem injured, but there were a few flecks of red against the wall behind her.

Blood.

The anger that surged up inside him was as hot and fierce as an open flame and he struggled to hold it back. He forced his breathing to remain even and he felt the flames recede a little, licking the inside of his veins instead of consuming them. But this was still very not safe. He forced his eyes away from the red flecks and towards the leader of the gang.

"Who is this?" the leader asked, looking more irritated than interested.

Good, Bruce thought smugly. If he had to be captured, then he hoped it was at least an inconvenience for them. Pathetic, Banner, he thought to himself and grimaced.

"An accomplice," the man gripping his jacket replied. "He was sniffing around back here."

"You know this woman?" the leader asked with an air of being much put upon.

"I was just trying to find the restroom," Bruce answered, trying to decide whether sticking to his story was the best plan. Natasha's face was still concealed behind whatever mask she was wearing, but her expression was grim.

"I see," said the leader. "Hm." He stepped towards Natasha and glanced at Bruce. Without warning, he slapped her. Another few red droplets spattered across the wall.

Bruce flinched and reached out a staying hand before he could think to stop himself.

"I see," the leader repeated, in a much more satisfied tone. "Bring him."

His eyes found Natasha's across the room and with the anger burning a hole in his chest, he wondered if they were green. She set her mouth in a thin line and shook her head minutely. He could hear her as clearly as if she had spoken aloud. Not now, Big Guy. It took all he had, but he kept the Other Guy at bay.

It wasn't Bruce first experience with being bound and forcibly transported against his will, but he found that repetition did not improve the experience, even with the added novelty of a black bag over his head. The ride was short, and they were forced to stumble down several flights of steps before they were both bound to chairs and relieved of their black bags. He blinked against the sudden light coming from hanging fluorescents overhead, and glanced to his right to see Natasha seated a few arm-lengths away.

They were in a room with a low ceiling and pink-and-paper insulation where drywall and ceiling tiles should have been. The air was musty and dank, and he couldn't hear any traffic nearby. They were in a basement, too deep for any hope of being heard. Things really couldn't get much worse, he reflected.

"Now," said the leader of the thugs, in a voice full of amusement. "Let's get started." He stepped in Natasha's direction and Bruce felt the fire rise in his veins again. He had almost forgotten: where he was involved, things could always get worse. He glanced overhead and wondered if they were underneath a home… and if anybody lived upstairs.

The annoying German took a step in her direction and Natasha made sure her expression didn't slip. She wasn't particularly relishing the beating that was coming, but she could take a punch. She could get some enjoyment out of this at least; she smiled insolently at him and relished his responding scowl. Of course, when his hand connected with her face, it was a strike fueled by anger which was less than ideal…

Well, she reflected as her Photostatic Veil finally gave in to the abuse and sparked and shimmered, you win some, you lose some.

"What do we have here?" the annoying German said in delight. "A Veil!" He peeled it off her face, and she thought she might prefer a slap to the more lingering touch. He handed the ruined Veil off to one of his men and peered at her face closely. She saw the moment he recognized her. A venomous smile crawled across his face. "Agent Romanoff," he said in a gleeful whisper. "The Black Widow. Baron Strucker will be delighted…"

"He's not coming to see me himself?" she asked casually, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course not. Once the Baron realized that someone was sniffing around, he departed immediately. You may have more difficulty finding him in the future… well, not you specifically, you understand. Not after tonight. Meine Brüder," he slipped into his mother tongue at last. "We have brought down the Black Widow. This is a cause for celebration!" There was a chorus of laughter all around and Natasha checked on Bruce in her peripheral vision. He had gone rigid. Hang in there, she thought uselessly.

She used their sloppy moments of self-congratulation to scan the room. It was empty, dusty, no sounds or movement traveling through the rafters overhead, no traffic nearby, no water stains from plumbing upstairs…

…unoccupied.

It took a superhuman exercise of willpower not to smile. She waited.

"Now, what do you say that we bring the infamous Black Widow down a few notches before we deliver her body to Strucker?" the annoying German asked no one in particular. The men murmured their assent anyway and seven hostile pairs of eyes turned towards her.

Natasha didn't have to fake her boredom.

"Can we hurry this along?" she asked dryly. "There are so many places I'd rather be."

The annoying German, predictably, grew angry and approached her with slow deliberation. She smiled sweetly at him. "First," he began coldly. "You will tell me about your friend." He pointed at Bruce. "Who is he?" He struck her before she had a chance to reply. Her mouth was full of blood, so she had to spit before she could speak.

"I was going to tell you," she muttered flatly. She shook her head to clear it and ignored the blood dripping down her chin. "That, boys," she met each of their eyes, "is Bruce Banner." A few of the brighter ones recognized the name immediately and their eyes went wide. The annoying German glanced frantically at the stairs - the only exit.

"Hey, Bruce," Natasha said with calm deliberation, catching his eye at last. His eyes were wide and shaken, but he was holding up pretty well. This wasn't his first rodeo either. "Code Green," she said, holding his gaze. She saw his split-second hesitation, but she didn't even have time to say trust me before he already had. His eyes flooded with luminous green, and she saw the anger burst from behind his carefully constructed walls like a tidal wave. The ropes holding him to the chair burst, the chair itself splintered, and Bruce's growing body was barring the only way out. One of the men actually whimpered. Natasha smiled sweetly at the whole group.

"Open fire!" screamed the annoying (and terrified) German as Bruce's convulsions stopped and Bruce's tuxedo hung in shreds from the Big Guy's shoulders. His head brushed the ceiling as he turned towards them, his face shaking with rage. The sounds of gunfire melded with his bloodthirsty roar and the floor and walls and ceiling shook. The bullets that tapped his skin caused no more damage than a sprinkling of raindrops, and the bullet casings tinkled almost musically against the concrete floor as two massive swipes of the Big Guy's arms knocked every one of the Hydra men out cold.

Nice.

The ensuing silence was punctuated only by the Big Guys heaving breaths. "Hey, Big Guy," she spoke quietly. "Can you give me a hand?" He looked annoyed at being in such a compressed space, and he kicked a few of the unconscious thugs on his way over, but he moved to help her immediately. The ropes snapped as easily as strands of thread under his touch. "Thanks," she said, and smiled at him. She swore he smiled back.

But the moment passed almost before she registered its coming, and his face creased in anger again as his eyes darted around the room. Searching for a way out, she realized. "Hey," she murmured, drawing his gaze again. "You were a huge help. But you're not going to fit up the stairs, so you know what that means." His heaving breaths were interrupted by a single snort. "Yeah," she agreed. "The sun's getting real low." And she held up her hand.

He regarded it intensely, and lifted his own massive hand in response, but his fingers changed direction mid-motion and reached toward her face. She stood in stunned silence as an index finger the size of a baseball bat swept with infinite care across her jaw. He pulled his finger back and it glistened red in the unforgiving fluorescent light. He stared pensively.

"Yeah," she whispered at last, finally released from the spell that had frozen her a moment before. "Not a great day, huh?" She held out her hand again and this time he reached for it. A little of the blood slid from his hand to hers.

The Big Guy stumbled, and she was glad the building was deserted; he banged the walls up pretty well as he staggered and fell. Bruce blinked at her in confusion when the spasms finally ceased and his eyes wandered over the pile of unconscious Hydra thugs and went wide.

"Code Green," he muttered. "Right." He glanced down at himself. "The pants made it," he commented wryly. Natasha smirked.

"Too bad the rest of the suit was shredded," she said mournfully. "The tuxedo was a good look for you."

Bruce gave a weary smile as she helped him stand. He shook a little under her fingertips and swayed on his feet, but he managed to keep upright. "For what it's worth," he commented, "Your regular face is a good look for you."

"Are you saying I'm pretty, Bruce?" Natasha asked instantly, smirking at him.

"Uh… I just meant…" Natasha felt a stab of pity and decided to relent. He had just Hulked out, after all. The guy deserved a break.

"I'm glad you like my usual face. Now," she brushed past her teasing and Bruce visibly relaxed. "Let's call Jarvis and arrange for somebody to pick these guys up."

"Already done," Jarvis' voice crackled in both their earpieces.

"Thanks, Jarvis," Bruce replied instantly. "He's a little creepy," he mouthed to Natasha immediately afterward. Natasha grinned.

She kept a hand on his arm as they limped towards the stairs. "Oh!" Bruce said suddenly, turning back to her. "Let me make sure you're okay. They beat you up pretty good."

"Please," Natasha scoffed. "I had worse than that by the time I was sixteen." Bruce's gaze turned horrified.

"That's a great comfort," he muttered. "May I?" She nodded begrudgingly and held still. "I just want to make sure you don't have a concussion… Look directly at the light, please." He was checking for pupil dilation, she knew. She did as he said and he leaned in close to check her eyes. "Good," he muttered to himself. His hands were on her face next, brushing feather-light over the tender swelling that she could already feel. He always hated this sort of comparison, but she couldn't help but think that Bruce's touch was remarkably similar to the Big Guy's a few moments earlier. Unaware of her thoughts, Bruce turned her face with infinite care to examine the opposite cheek. His eyes, she noticed distantly, were a warm, beautiful brown. The thought was so sudden and unexpected that she blinked and pulled back.

Maybe she did have a concussion.

"That's going to be a nasty bruise," Bruce said regretfully. "I'll give you something for it when we get back."

"I was thinking a raw steak…" she said with a smile.

"I was thinking actual medicine," Bruce rebuked, but he was smiling back.

They trudged up the stairs stiffly. "I didn't know you could sing," Bruce commented without looking at her.

"Neither does anybody else. And I'd like to keep it that way."

"Fair enough. You were really good, though."

She generally had a very low opinion of compliments, but coming from Bruce… it felt real. She nodded.

"You might be right to keep it quiet," Bruce continued thoughtfully. "If Tony found out, he'd probably throw a karaoke party… and no one deserves that." They shuddered together.

"I couldn't agree more," Natasha said as a hint of mischief entered her thoughts and summoned her usual smirk. "Besides, when you got booed offstage, you'd probably go green…"

Bruce gave a dry laugh - but it was genuine. "Ouch," he muttered, pressing a hand to his chest as if she had lodged a dagger there.

"Actually," Natasha continued thoughtfully, "let's not discard this idea too quickly… It would certainly make an impression on any guests."

"Or karaoke judges," Bruce agreed.

"Always an upside," she added cheerfully. "You were definitely the life of the party tonight."

Bruce gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Well, it is my only party trick."

They reached the landing at last. "Dr. Banner," Jarvis' voice filled her ear, and she saw Bruce pause to listen as well. "Your phone was destroyed, sir, but I have rerouted a call to you through your earpiece. It's Captain Rogers."

Bruce's expression of amusement deflated and turned weary. "Oh," he muttered in an infinitely pained voice. "Now he calls me!"

Notes: Just a few random notes on the origins of this oneshot… I think I first got the idea when I heard Scarlett Johansson sing the song "Before My Time," and I remembered abruptly that she sang sometimes in addition to the whole acting thing. And then I thought that Natasha has the same voice… Natasha can sing… and then all I could think about was her posing as a singer and Bruce stumbling into the scene somehow and BAM inspiration. (Also, blueincandescence is responsible for my initial exposure to that song… I'm in her debt forever, basically.)

When I was pondering Bruce's list of favorite phone numbers, Tony was an obvious choice, and Natasha post-lullaby would certainly be in there as well. I dismissed Clint and Thor because Thor doesn't seem particularly sensitive to Bruce, however much he may respect the Hulk as a fighter. He congratulates Bruce on causing mayhem and realizes after Natasha glares at him that Bruce doesn't like to hear that. Um, Thor, where have you been? (Not getting to know Bruce better, that's for sure lol.) As for Clint, he never talks to Bruce (that we see, anyway). And he was completely in the dark about the BruceNat connection that was happening, so he can't have been in the habit of hanging out with the two of them or surely he would have noticed something. And I just can't imagine him hanging out with Bruce apart from Natasha. What would they even talk about? Oh no… fic ideas attacking…

ANYWAY.

As for Steve, he's an obvious choice to be friendly with Bruce. He was nice to him from their first meeting and always respectful after that, even when he was reprimanding Tony for risking a Hulk out and endangering the helicarrier. ("No offense, Dr. Banner.") He recognizes the danger of the Hulk (which I'm sure Bruce appreciates) and treats Bruce like a human being. How often does that happen to Bruce? Also, there's the fact that Bruce must have spent a lot of time studying Steve Rogers since it was his super soldier experiment that Bruce was trying to duplicate when he shot himself full of gamma radiation. He must have spent countless hours pouring over files about Steve Rogers, so he was probably in the unique position of understanding Steve a little better than the rest of the team. Add to that my head canon (and the head canon of many others) that Bruce likes old movies, and I bet the two of them would go to town talking about movies that Bruce loved… and that Steve had seen in the original release. (In fact, I may or may not have a fic dealing with this in development as we speak…) The final exhibit in this body of evidence for the Steve/Bruce BrOTP is the fact that out of all the Avengers, it's Steve who picks up on what's going on between Bruce and Natasha, and Steve who approaches Bruce about it with encouragement. There's a level of comfort there that could indicate friendship between them. Plus, they're both just so darn nice. Team Politeness! Team Too Pure For This World! Team Cinnamon Roll!

Ahem.

The Photostatic Veil is from Captain America: The Winter Soldier, of course. Cool tech, I must say. And how else could Natasha go gallivanting about on secret missions after blowing all her covers in that same movie? The Tetrodotoxine B was also a Winter Soldier reference; it was the formula that slowed heart rates enough to allow Nick Fury to fake his death. Bruce Banner was the creator.

I've blathered on quite long enough, and now I really must know… What did you think?

Bruce: Do you want to know my secret, Agent Romanoff? You want to know how I keep calm?

The Avengers:…

Bruce: Reviews. On my fan fictions.

Me: Speak the truth, Dr. Banner.

(Please review!)