[A/N]: Hello, beautiful people! I hope this Brucenat fluff brings you some joy after (the mess that was) Endgame.
It's Natasha who finds him first. More accurately, it's her hand that finds—and pinches—his ass.
An audience consisting of Wanda and Okoye stares at him when he pivots. Each woman holds a black concoction that resembles witches' brew, and it's his partner who's provided the mixture. Among several others at the gathering, Natasha has also fallen victim to her own tincture. Intoxication stares at him through her expanded pupils. Other than that, though, she's steady on her feet.
His eyebrows elevate toward the ceiling in an act of surprise and jest. He shifts his gaze from Nat to their friends.
"Not my idea," Wanda defends, sipping black brew to prevent further questioning on the issue of his buttocks.
Okoye, on the other hand, shoots her brows up right back at him.
Any potential duel with her is not one he cares to enter, or inevitably lose. He turns to Natasha. "Having a—"
"Where is your drink?" Okoye cuts in.
"Uh…" Emptiness burns in his palms. "I had a drink."
"Was it one of these?" Okoye brandished her half empty glass like a piece of damning evidence.
Though caught off guard by this whole exchange, he grins through his sputtering, "N-no, but Nat made me something else."
"She makes very good drinks." Wanda says, slipping into a hint of a slur.
The intoxication of others inspires confidence in some. Not him. His uncertainty is a fog, thickened by a whirlwind of factors including, but certainly not limited to, the spectrum of drunkenness before him. For that reason, he flings out the first thing his mouth can manage, "She's very multitalented."
Wanda snorts and tries to hide it behind a sip. Okoye, on the other hand, makes no attempt to mask the widening of her eyes, the judgmental drop of her face, the downward tilt of her chin. It's so apparent he almost doesn't notice Natasha snickering into the scant space between them. Honestly, he's not sure what he said to get that reaction or whether he should reply—he'll probably make it worse.
Maybe detecting this—and probably in search of something more worth her time—Okoye walks away, drink clutched like a gavel. Natasha emerges from his shoulder to lock eyes with Wanda, who gestures vaguely with her glass and says, "I'm gonna go...over there. You two have fun."
It's not until after she and Nat exchange smirks and he's left with his partner that he can piece together a coherent sentence—or, rather, a simple question, "What just happened?"
"You made it sound like a sex thing."
"I—what? No—that's not what I meant!" His defense is futile, for Nat's already hunched into his collar, trying to stifle incessant laughter. If this phenomenon wasn't so delightful, he'd try a little harder to clarify. This stream of laughs is like stumbling across otters playing in a waterfall; he doesn't dare disturb it. He only marvels.
"Oh," she exhales at the end of her fit, as though she's just finished a workout. When she emerges from the crook of his neck, a slight glow radiates from her cheeks. He absorbs it like sunlight. She presses her glass into his chest and, like it's some delicate memento, he grips it with both hands as she removes hers. Her palms, chilled from the beverage, migrate to his cheeks. Her fingers are cool relief against his face, which is still hot from his embarrassment.
She holds his head there as he holds her drink. The smile that spreads across her mouth is slanted and nothing but coy and a little goofy. She tells him, "I love you." It sounds no different from any other time she says it, yet it's just as astounding.
It's easy to forget she's a bit past tipsy until she bumps her nose into his when going to kiss him. He startles worse than she does, splashing himself with dilute black liquid on his white shirt in the process. She doesn't notice—goes right back to chuckling—until she ducks into him and sees.
"Shit—"
"Here—" He tilts his head back and drains the glass without further incident. Granted, he nearly chokes because neither of them can fully quench their laughter. That, and Natasha makes a damn strong drink. This concoction is clearly no exception.
"That was mine!" She self-sabotages her faux complaint with leftover laughter.
"It was," he confirms. "And it was potent."
"Serves you right."
Before he can retort, her hand is at his collar, pulling him in for a brief, slightly more coordinated peck.
Of course, Tony spots them and can't resist calling, "Get a room!"
Bruce moves the empty glass behind his back so Natasha can't throw it.
In a surprise play, she fires back, "Gladly." She turns to him, suggestion inscribed into the curvature of her eyebrows. "Shall we?"
"Um…" He's more certain of how to perform multivariable calculus than explain to his very brilliant, very capable but also intoxicated girlfriend that he does not want to do anything remotely sexual with her in this state.
Thankfully, as usual, they're on the same page. "To bed, Bruce," she says, reaching around him for her glass. Her other hand drops into his jacket pocket, not so much slipping as stumbling inside.
He surrenders the container, but she doesn't retreat. Her fingers swim around in what is mainly a vacancy—the only things on his person right now are a keycard, his phone, his glasses case, and a pen.
"What are you doing?" He asks, more amused than anything.
She shrugs, secures the keycard and withdraws her hand, holding up her prize.
"Not exactly subtle," he quips.
"I wasn't trying that time."
"'That time?'"
She pockets the card, reaches around herself, plucks something from her waistband. Turns out it's his phone.
"When—when did you—" He pats his pockets, as though she's just performed a magic trick. To her credit, she's the kind of person who could make kids believe in sorcery.
"When I decided to try," she says, turning toward the far exit. Onward she goes, depositing her empty cup onto the bar, her steps no less steady. "Come on."
Of course he follows—not just because he adores her, but because she happens to have the key to his room.
Laughter and motion sensitive lights track their path from the lounge to the wing he's staying in while they're at the facility. They don't stop by her room, despite the fact they're supposed to be headed to sleep. It's possible she forgot, but unlikely.
Outside his door, she stops and spins around to face him. It hasn't been more than ten minutes since they left the party, but she seems more sober now. The contrast from her smiling and chuckling to this casts her in a somber veil.
"You okay?" He asks.
She presses her lips together and nods. He can't help but see it as bittersweet.
"Nat—"
"I'm gonna stay here tonight."
That takes him aback only because that's how it's been since they got here. She goes to her room for a change of clothes, toiletries she forgets, and not much else. Her alone time she spends elsewhere, she trains outside or in one of the various gym rooms, she sleeps in his room without worry or question. She does all that without verifying because there's no need. Yet, here she is, confirming this automatic, assumed thing with him.
"Yeah. Of course. Do you want to get some clothes…" He trails off as her head shakes. The corner of her grin drops in rumination.
"My nightmares get pretty bad." He knows this well, but doesn't interrupt. She continues, "I used to wake up and wish you were there. Which felt stupid because we'd never slept together, except for that time at Clint's. But that was different and…"
"Awkward," he admits.
"Yeah." She anchors her gaze on him. "Anyway...I thought I was being pathetic. But," she lifts one hand and secures his cheek. He was never going anywhere else anyway. "I do sleep better with you there."
He grips her hand and holds it between them. Like a vow, he says, "Then let's go to sleep."
Apparently set on caressing his face, her spare palm comes up to his jaw, where she pulls him in for a quick kiss. After it, she informs him, "I'm taking one of your shirts."
"I'm not surprised." He pecks her mouth one last time before they head in. She leads the way because she's still in possession of the key, and his phone. With them in her care, he doesn't worry; it doesn't feel like he's missing anything.
True to her word, she steals one of his shirts while he wets the stain on his current one. They're settling in, him curled around her tonight, when she turns over to face him.
"Bruce." She says his name with the urgency of a revelation. He waits for it. "You're my lullaby."
The lights are off and his eyes have yet to adjust to the dark, but he can hear the frivolous, proud grin in her voice.
Through his melting, he mutters back, "Dork."
Between his arms, she shifts onto her back. "I could kick your ass."
That, he won't argue with, "Yeah, you could." He nudges her ankles with his. "You're still a dork."
"You are so not getting laid."
"We're going to sleep."
"Exactly. I win."
Triumphant, she flips away from him, settles into the natural curve of their bodies.
He closes his eyes, smiling. "Love you too."