A/N: Real talk for a moment - obviously, I adore the relationship between Bruce and Natasha. I would (and often do) defend it to the ends of the MCU and back. One of the complaints I hear most often is that Brucenat was "sudden" (to which I say: watch the first Avengers again). Where did the lullaby come from? When did they start liking each other? Thus, here is this fic - my suggestion as to one of the many, many ways Bruce and Natasha could've fallen for one another. Take it or leave it, but if you choose to read, I do hope you enjoy!
A heads-up, the beginning is Bruce-centric, but worry not. Natasha comes in soon and starts being the BAMF she is. :)
Every couple months, newspaper headlines hook onto the names of familiar companions. Even without a devised method of data collection, Bruce has gleaned a few of his friends' patterns in the myopic realm of media.
Economics magazines have all but anointed Tony Stark as their god by now, which his ego undoubtedly adores. American spreads pump ever more red, white, and blue inspiration into the minds of young men and women by plastering Steve across multi-page articles and detachable posters. Clint and Thor manage to maintain a higher level of elusiveness, but even they are not immune to the flash of a reporter ambush. The only one among them who rivals Bruce for digital and public secrecy is Natasha.
In the beginning, when the masses were still intoxicated off fresh triumph, one journal had captured her — no interview, a blurb full of hyperbolic, journalistic speculation, and a blurry photograph. Since cruising off in the passenger seat of Clint's car, both of them had become preoccupied with keeping a low profile.
If anything, he figured she would employ S.H.I.E.L.D's resources to establish a sound cover. There's a jab of surprise when a summon arrives from S.H.I.E.L.D and there's no mention of her. Although, they wouldn't reveal more information than necessary, and barely even that, in a one page letter (nor would they reveal how, exactly, they were able to pinpoint his location). That is, at least, what he tells the sinking rock in his gut.
Though the note claims to "request" his presence, its sheer existence in this unmarked hovel — nestled in the rampant hills of Mongolia — stands as a testament to their need, dedication, and unspoken refusal to accept his potential denial. One mission with them means a lifetime contract, it seems.
Hence, per the curt instructions detailed on his summoning, he abandons the three room compound he has rented from a family comprised of a widowed mother and her daughter. An undeniable benefit of his vaguely nonconsensual association with S.H.I.E.L.D is the financial resources; it means he can afford to leave the proprietor with an advance on the months he will no longer stay, in conjunction with a carved horse for the daughter who strives to overlook the Mongolia-China boundary from horseback, atop a mountain.
His emergence from isolation begins in the backseat of a man's car, whose dung-scented dog occupies the much roomier seat ahead of Bruce. It's evident by the crusted flakes of darker-and-dirtier than chocolate brown that this animal has recently spent too much time near the rear ends of horses. While Mongolia has provided uninterrupted respite, he will not miss the occasional proximity to humid horse stench. As his navigator traverses road, barren of signs and any apparent speed limit, he wonders if his acquired ability to distinguish between bovine, equine, and camel manure makes him a "worldly" traveller. Either way, that is not a skill he is eager to boast about.
In an effort to distract from the humid atmosphere of waste, he devotes his unwavering gaze to the sweeping valleys and jagged uplift of juvenile mountains.
This wild expanse contains limitless escape plans. Every junction in the rocky skyline holds a hundred places to hide, thousands of rocks to take shelter under, and perhaps a few dozen caves, unlit and unmarked for decades upon potential centuries. These swooping, uncarved lands are home to countless unknowns colored in every shade from brown to gray.
Of course, in an overly industrialized world, such natural magnificence cannot roam for too long uninterrupted. Even here, town punctures through the uncalloused soil after about ninety minutes of travel by car. A putrid hissing from the back end of the dog and brief struggle with the driver's trunk — all for the reward of his sole bag of possessions — punctuates his re-entrance into contemporary technology's civilization. His retrieval comes at the cost of a healthy chunk of tugrik and his journey with the driver concludes with an uneventful thanks before the car sputters off, gaseous, manure-scented dog and all.
One cramped car ride down, one train trip to go.
What he adores about the Mongolian plains leaves no trace within the city that has risen from the ground. Isolation holds a different texture in crowded streets, and it tastes lonely. Between high-rise buildings that beckon the heavens, a cacophony of bleating car horns and furious bike bells, and the civilized stampede of quotidian, anthropologic activity, there is no room or reason to speculate on the impact of his existence. He's grateful for camouflage, but, admittedly, it is a more seamless serenity in the vacancy of the sparsely inhabited.
In any case, S.H.I.E.L.D continues to prove him that, no matter the size of the crowds or how far off the grid he goes, blending in and fading out of the public eye, fading out of the past attached to this persona, is impossible. For the second time this month, this epiphany smacks his gut into the soles of his feet when an agent approaches him outside the train station.
He bears no identification; the only indicator of his affiliation is the appointed confidence in his long strides. This may be Phil's replacement, after a few months now. It seems S.H.I.E.L.D is progressing into its next phase, and they're determined to take Bruce with them.
"Doctor Banner," the fellow says, a courteous nod offered. His baby boy blonde hair is completely cropped by a close shave. There's probably more hair in his strictly trimmed beard and mustache combo. The light blue of his eyes are shallow — a highly calculated and trained hue that resembles the dye used to manufacture workplace ties. It's evident from his sturdy triangle shape and unyielding rigidity in his flat line shoulders that this man was likely plucked from the top ranks of some division in the U.S. army.
To confirm his own identity, Bruce returns the nod.
"I'm Asher Jung. I'll be escorting you to our transport." His phrasing is monotone, rehearsed — careful to not insinuate the organization's inherent distrust of the Hulk, which is what he is to them first and foremost.
With no other choice, Bruce acquiesces to the agent, "Lead the way."
Agent Jung accepts his obedience and launches them into a trek across the town, away from the train ride Bruce had planned for. They surge onward at a pace that requires him to almost jog. The agent splits the crowds ahead, shifting women to the side with a brush of his hand and nearly trampling a few dogs — some leashed, others not — who didn't know to stay out of his path. To those who stop in the middle of the sidewalk, clutching their lunches and bags bewildered, Bruce murmurs passing apologies. As far as speaking goes, those sentiments are the only conversation that takes place between them until they diverge down a wide alley, where a black car awaits.
As soon as doors slam shut, closing out intruding ears and muffling industrial dissonance, the army agent starts debriefing. "We appreciate your cooperation, doctor. I'm afraid we have a situation that requires your skillset as a scientist."
Bitter sass tickles the tip of his tongue, which he presses into the backs of his teeth so his remarks remained contained. This man is an unexplored variable nested within his familiar terrain. It is Bruce who is out of his element here, having already succumbed to their summons. He resigned himself to ambivalent silence.
With nothing to interrupt Agent Jung as their driver navigates midday traffic, he continues, "There has been a controlled outbreak of a genetic mutation among young adults. Our estimates have about 75 to 100 infected — judging by news reports and an upsurge in some minor disasters. None affected have been over the age of twenty-five. It could be lower, could be higher."
The agent checks his attentiveness with a cursory glance. Any assumptions this man has probably colors Bruce in one dimension. News of some outbreak must be scientific candy to geek like him, right? What are the odds he'll be scrutinizing S.H.I.E.L.D's intentions here?
Quite good, actually. As qualified as Agent Jung undoubtedly is, his freshness within the rigid hierarchy of S.H.I.E.L.D serves him a disadvantage here. There's dozens of reasons tied in the lattice of covert organization bureaucracy that steer Bruce away from regular workings within this group, and this pawn likely knows little to none of that.
While this agent lectures, he is absolutely calculating possible motivations here. This explanation delivered to him sounds more like a spiel for a news camera. Naturally they would want to employ their nerdy mutant ally to investigate this all-too relevant issue.
Completely oblivious to these skeptical innerworkings, Jung goes on, "The youngest of record was a seven year old in Ghana. He died before S.H.I.E.L.D agents could extract him."
The back of Bruce's neck bristles at that; his fingers twist into knots and he diverts his gaze to the sandy city blur out the window.
"Currently, we have two mutants in our custody. They're older — eighteen and twenty-two. They surrendered themselves over to us in southern Africa. The girl's Lenora, South African, and the boy is either Ethiopian or Ghanan."
There's a big difference there, he remarks to himself. Rude or dismissive as it may seem, turning away from the window to reveal his expression now posed a risk of inciting suspicion.
"Our lab technicians have only been able to discern so much about the mutations. The properties manifest differently in the two," Jung explains to the back of Bruce's skull. "And it's also difficult to pin Lenora down long enough to collect a blood sample."
At that rather dubious statement, Bruce pivots so his full skepticism and curiosity is on display. Let the man suspect him; if S.H.I.E.L.D's hoping he'll use the Hulk to restrain someone and simultaneously draw blood, their investment in him has been an utter waste.
Agent Jung provides a curt, facetious explanation, "You'll understand if you ever piss her off."
As if that justifies hogtying someone like a rogue bull. This guy seems amused by it — the idea of her resistance — because he chuckles a bit, as though he and Bruce are sharing a manly moment, laughing at feminine strength. Clearly, this man has never encountered Natasha Romanoff.
Bruce doesn't laugh.
The overly masculine smirk falls. Back to business. "Not only are you advanced in your abilities here, doctor, but you also—"
"Have the Hulk?" He cuts in, his question posed as an accusation.
Shamelessly, Jung acknowledges, "Well, yes."
With that admitted, he snaps his gaze back to the blurs outside the window.
"We have to figure out how this is happening, why it's happening, and how to put an end to it." Jung says — as if that justifies everything.
There the conversation dies. That's all the information he gets, and it's all he wants. Anything else, he'll figure out for himself, without restraining anyone, without the "assistance" of the green guy. He may have succumbed to S.H.I.E.L.D's will — and, unfortunately, the bidding of Agent Jung — but he won't be a monster for hire.
Silence eats away at the remaining hours of their car ride. In his mind, Bruce utters a farewell ode to the country and hospitality of the mother and daughter who provided him with shelter from forces like Agent Jung, even if it was only temporary.
Without any familiar faces, the monolithic aircraft is a hollow, metal construction with monotone halls that lead to barracks and meeting rooms devoted to the tedious — the architecture of loneliness. This is a smaller model than a typical Helicarrier, employed for missions demanding stealth, or a lack of priority. Considering the gravity emphasized by Agent Jung, he can easily deduce the latter does not hold validity.
His boarding is uneventful — unnoticed, even. The primary concern is not their new passenger, but disembarking back into the above. That's more than fine with him; he's never required anything lavish, nothing like a celebrated hero's homecoming. As he told Jung, he is content with finding his lab, bed, and the mess hall. Not because they are dull or unsavory people, but, by his inherent nature, he is not thrilled about incorporating himself with the social circles of S.H.I.E.L.D agents and engineers.
Bruce is simply honored to enjoy the escort of Agent Jung to his facilities. Outside of the city and car, they are tucked away from raw sunshine as hastily as possible. A uniformed duo swarms their commander, accompanying them through operation centers and prismatic halls with a slew of reports that inspired them to speak seven words a second. As they cross into narrower sections of the craft, Bruce falls behind to accommodate for the man and woman. By the time they have woven through the aircraft's digestive system to his lab, those two demonstrate no signs of concluding their accounts anytime soon.
Awaiting is another gentleman, this one of a shorter stature, pecan-hued skin and swooped hair, pulled and pinned into an army-acceptable 180 degree posture.
A single palm, raised to all in the room, quells the talking. "Doctor Banner, you lab. Your quarters are on the floor below." Jung turns to the man fixed between a fume hood and a large, suspended monitor. "This is Agent Jones. He's tasked with the supervision of the mutants. So, seeing as they're not here, I'm not sure why he has abandoned his post."
To his own defense, Jones insist, "They're in their rooms, sir. Lenora had an incident this morning—"
"There's always an incident with her," Jung fires back. "Why are you here?"
Some of the steel flakes off his rigid spine. "Sir. I wanted to welcome Doctor Banner, since he'll be working — ah, assisting with Lenora and—"
"If you deemed doorman courtesies more important than your post, I can have Marquez or Ford take over."
Stoicism gave way to a silhouette of submission beneath his cheeks. "That won't be necessary, sir."
Agents Ford and Marquez utter nothing, don't even dare to breathe loudly and incur the subdued wrath of their commander. They beat Jones with statue stares while Bruce stands to the side, caught in the middle.
"It's nice to meet you." Bruce directs toward the defeated. It tumbles out of his mouth clumsily, not as bold or resistant as he intended. Craven as he is, his moral code won't tolerate another subject of Jung's intimidation tactics.
Defiance is treachery to the commander. He gores Bruce with the horns of an unabashed glare, ordering to his subordinate in the meanwhile, "Since you're intent on groveling to the doctor, you can personally escort him and his things to his room." Blow to Jones' pride delivered, he spins and strides out of the lab with his two-person entourage. Over his shoulder, he calls, "We'll be docking in Madagascar tomorrow. There's a meeting at 0600, Doctor Banner." His name is warped into a quiet assertion of Jones' inferior rank, which does not clear him for such bureaucratic meetings apparently.
Once the mechanic glass doors snap shut, they are alone, afforded the comfort of a free conversation.
The first thing out of the agent's mouth: "I'm sorry, doctor. I really did—"
Bruce stammers to cut off the unnecessary apologies, but immediately traps his interception on his tongue. At the softest "um," Jones' jaw has glued shut, whatever input he had tossed into a garbage compressor. Wordless, Bruce extends a hand that urges him to continue. "I meant no trouble, sir. I wanted to meet the doctor I'd be working with."
"That's understandable." Bruce agrees, "Since we'll be working together, call me Bruce." He doesn't want to be another title, another rank this guy has to memorize.
Jones blinks slow as if Bruce spontaneously switched to speaking Mandarin and expected him to respond. It would seem the suggestion causes a malfunction in the agent. While he processes, maybe reboots, he peers around at the new tech available to him. Aside from intrigue and curiosity sated only by experimentation, a wisp of a wonder spirals through his mind: how many of his new gadgets were supplied by Stark industries?
They're allowed three, perhaps four minutes of hush before a single metal door in the rear corner of the lab bursts open.
"I knew it!" An artificial redhead exclaims as an announcement of her presence. "For someone who works in a top secret agency, you have a shit poker face," she snaps at Jones, breezing by him and planting herself right before Bruce. A simply dressed fellow tags along behind her, passing Jones with a ginger brush of his fingers on the agent's shoulders. Fists planted on her hips, she triumphantly states, "Who are you?"
Her friend stifles a snicker. Bruce is unabashedly taken aback, tilted off his composure. "Ah, I'm Doctor Banner."
"Oh!" The girl, presumably Lenora, turns to the boy, "The green guy!"
To the sinking in his gut, he asks, Did you really expect any better?
Jones sputters, "How — how do you know that?"
She waggles taunting fingers at him. "Vibrations, remember?" When her head whips back around, the shaved brunette roots beneath her bottle red hair are revealed.
"Doctor Banner, I'm sorry. This is Lenora and —"
"We can introduce ourselves, thank you." She beams at Bruce with all too much expectation glowing in her eyes. "I'm Lenora and this is Berhanu." Her chin gestures to her comrade, who stands taller than anyone else in the room. "If you don't try to manhandle me, you can call me Lena. Berhanu's just Berhanu."
On cue, the boy nods and extends an amicable palm. Bruce grips it for what he believes to be a handshake, but quickly morphs into the arm curling him into a hug. Face stuffed against Berhanu's chin and neck, his only view is of Lenora peeping at them with upturned cheeks.
"You're the guy they hired to deal with us — right?"
Muffled into skin, he responds in earnest, "I really don't know—"
She looks to Jones, "Right?"
"You seem to know all the answers," he retorts, none too pleased.
As he is released, she keeps talking — confirming to him and herself, "Right." To her friend, she rattles off a few curt sentences in what he thinks may be Amharic — he's not encountered it enough to be certain. Judging by the amount of "um"s and "ag"s with thoughtful mouth smacking, he'd surmise that she's a beginner to this language.
He inserts a comment between Berhanu's quick corrections of her grammar and pronunciation. "I got the impression that you didn't want any supervision. No offense, Jones."
The agent shakes his head quickly, as though to insist he would very much like to not supervise these kids.
The remarks elicits an eye roll from her. "Since we got on this thing, nobody has listened to us." She preaches to him as though he is a judge who just emerged into a jailhouse. "We surrendered ourselves — did Asher tell you that? We've wanted to help figure this out the whole time. But no, we're menaces that need to be locked up and babysat. Honestly, it's like we're circus animals."
With only raw truth, he tells her, "Yeah. I know a little about that." Jones refuses to make eye contact with anything except the floor. It's a reminder to practice caution when distributing his sympathies. "Do you...would you like to talk to someone who'd listen?"
"Agh!" Her arms are thrown up in a praising gesture. "Yes!"
"Alright." He swivels around, looking for chairs, tables, then starts sifting through drawers in search of supplies. It takes him multiple tries to produce syringes, needles, and sterilizing equipment. By the time he's done so, Lenora and Berhanu have perched themselves on a lab bench, while Agent Jones still devotes his concentration to the tiled floor. The kids meet him with skeptical stares, and that's when it strikes him — how odd and presumptuous he must seem, with nitrile gloves snapped on, armed with needles, vials, and other typical doctor's office tools. "Ah, sorry. Would you mind if I took blood samples while you talk? It's for my initial analysis."
Instead of a verbal response, the girl merely exposes her forearm, and Berhanu follows suit. Bruce's thanks is a smile.
"How? What?" Jones sputters, aghast. "You go rogue against half a platoon, but he just asks—"
"Exactly." Bruce turns his logic against him. "I asked."