The city was loud and blaring. Absolutely no rest, though the local time was just past 3am. Natasha Romanov looked up and the grubby dive; the windows were boarded with plywood sheets, old, wet posters faded on the door. It was perfect in its complete clichéd style, the exact place you would remember as a spy for being so immediately unmemorable. Idly, she smirked at the sheer cliché of Banner's idea of inconspicuous. She walked in, nodding her head to the season-beat bouncer.
Inside, he sat. Bruce Banner nursed a glass of whiskey, he hadn't even given it a sip. Instead, he toyed with it, pushing his fingers around the cool glass, pretending to be busy. His elbows sat on the bar, shoulders slumped forward. Listening. Listening and watching. In the background the news played the same reruns from the night before. The Sokovia Accords. The failed Sokovia Accords. It was a week from being the latest news- but no new topic had yet to make its place in front of the reruns.
He came here every night. Nothing else to do and not much money to inspire any ideas, he sat nursing a drink he never drank. It was something his mother had always told him to do- be social. So, okay, he didn't talk to anybody but leaving the confines of the apartment put his whirring head at a break. He liked the routine. The locals would tell him things sometimes, drunkenly slur their words at him. Other times the barman would offer him the paper, after the first time Bruce asked for it. He was quiet and untroublesome- paid the few bucks before leaving each night.
Listlessly, Bruce listened to the radio descriptions of his old teammates- the wanted members who had failed to sign. The entire business was a mess. He knew it wouldn't be long until someone recognised him; asked him to sign or threaten to lock him away. Yeah, that'd go down well with the Other Guy.
A flash of red hit his peripheral. As with anything that shade of burgundy did- a woman's top, a car's light, a closing door- he automatically turned. It became such an automatic response to him. And he expected it to be nothing. He didn't expect to see her. Not stood there staring intently at him, arms crossed over a black coat, waiting. A feeling of heated anger rose in him, a growl hitting the back of his throat. He swallowed it down, downing the whiskey for good measure. And with that he grabbed his coat, pulled out a note, slipped it on the bar next to the crinkled newspaper. As he rushed past her he smelt the musky perfume she used, and it was then he knew she was real.
Marching home he couldn't hear her. But he knew she was following, her heels silent on the pavement as if she was stepping on air, half hidden in the shadows. Inconspicuous as her training had taught her, the hairs still stood up on the back of his next telling him she was there. She followed him down the uneven flagstones of the paved street. She followed him through the winding backroads, letting him take various circles as a lame attempt of throwing her off. She followed him through the lobby of a ramshackle apartment building; up the twisting stairwell where her steps were almost part of the echo his own footsteps made.
He made it to his front door; key ready to fit in the lock and lock her out. More a symbolic gesture than a practical one. It wouldn't take her half a minute to pick this lock. So instead he sighed. Rubbed a hand over his over-stubbled face. And turned.
She had the shame to look at her feet as he caught her eye. Before she looked up again, lips moving a few seconds before she made any sound.
''Look I'm sorry-'' her voice was deeper than he recalled it in his mind. He watched her hand move behind her neck, rubbing the soft skin as her curls jigged with the movement. ''But Steve's gone- and Tony…Tony's a dick. More, more of a dick. Everyone's scattered and I-I just- I haven't got anyone, alright? I've got no family, there's no one left for me- and I, I just needed to see someone-''
'''Tasha.'' He caught himself, ''Natasha. You shouldn't have come here- ''
''I know I shouldn't.'' She took a step forward, looking him directly in the eye. Her brows furrowed, her voice suddenly softer. ''I'd hate me too. But if you just understood- No. No, you're right. I'm invading your space. I'll leave, umm, just call Tony just let him know you're safe…he's tearing his hair- just call.'' She shook her head, sighing he saw the exhaustion on her face, she carried it with her.
He let her turn. Satisfied to watch her walk away back out of his life, let him go back to his endless brooding. Back off of SHEILD's radar if he so chose- which he supposedly had been for the last few months.
'''Tash- wait. Hang on! You, you didn't tell anyone?'' He was asking because he didn't want her to walk away just like that. Partially a niggling feeling of disbelief stuck him- how could she be here if they didn't already know his exact coordinates. If they knew it was only a matter of time.
''I got the memo- you needed space.'' She shrugged, as if his scepticism was expected. His distrust of her weighed her mind but she kept an impassive face.
''How long have you known where I am?'' He asked, knowing full-well it was a loaded question. How long have you been avoiding our confrontation? When were you going to bring me back? How long have you been lying to give him 'space'?
The lack of answer was nearly as loaded as the question. He raised an eyebrow at her. Wondering how different it would have been if she had just followed him after Ultron, immediately followed and apologised. If he manged to convince him to forgive her and they ran away together as planned. But could she have, what could she have possibly said?
He sighed audibly, finally unlocking the door and holding it open. He never was any good at conflict.
''Let me make you some tea.''
He watched her shut the door behind them in his peripheral. Gesturing roughly at the sitting room, he walked into the small kitchenette, wordlessly faffing around in the cupboard. He didn't know why his hands were shaking as he leafed through the tin box of small packets.
She perched on the sofa, moving his book carefully to the coffee table, her hands ghosting the laminate cover. She sat rod straight, politely tucked her ankles behind one another. He knew that she was calculating everything in that moment of apparent serenity. She didn't have to even move her head to work out the quickest exits; to mentally map the room and make assumptions about the rest. The small apartment he had called home for months was the same as her scrutinising the very insides of his chest cavity. She could learn just as much from this exposure as his medical records.
''I've got ashwanganda, chamomile, valerian root or passionflower.'' His voice seemed quiet. He wondered if it was because he'd been shouting, because he hadn't spoken so much in so long, or because he was scared of her and what she meant.
''That sounds good, thank you.'' Her lips quirked into the ghost of a smile, a self-deprecating sarcastic comment almost escaping her, as she realised she hadn't answered. But it just didn't feel right. She wasn't sure why she was here, perhaps she shouldn't have come. It was foolish to think that he would still want her, that there could be any emotion but disgust left in him. Yet, his very nature wouldn't allow him to turn her away, his anger- his perfectly controlled anger- bubbled at the surface. The Other Guy. And she was all too aware the Other Guy wasn't her biggest fan right now.
Breaking her reverie a mug appeared in front of her. She took it gratefully, holding the too hot mug in both hands though she could barely stand it. The heat kept her grounded though. She didn't hazard a sip yet, but she knew it would be perfectly achingly sweet how he made tea after every mission.
He placed his mug on the table, fighting for space amongst mountains of papers and books he was stocking. Giving up on pulling out a chair he leant against the wood. Pulling his arms around himself protectively.
''So, where's the back up?'' He looked up at her for a moment.
''Just you and Me.'' Her voice echoed a past version of herself. A more mysterious, distanced version of the Black Widow. A version not even called Natasha yet, and it made him somehow angry and somehow sad.
''You've said that before.''
''Don't you know me better now?'' He didn't know if she was hurt or if she was joking. But he didn't know if he was joking or hurt.
He almost agreed, but a bitter noise in his throat. Off guard of his own emotions.
She saw the conflict in him, she was trained to see the conflict in him. And knowing she had caused that conflict made her feel as small as Ant-man.
''I'm sorry.'' She tried to inflect the importance of her apology to her voice, it fell flat lost within her accent and his pain.
''It doesn't matter.''
''No, I don't suppose it does. What I did was unspeak-'' she continued to speak, needing him to understand. She couldn't take him hating her.
''You still did it.'' Bruce's voice ended with a crisp finality.
She looked up at him, lips parted at the unexpected tone. Bruce shifted on his feet, placing his mug down on the table next to him again before placing his hands in his pockets. The metre or so between them was stark.
''We were meant to run away-'' Natasha's lips turned in a half smirk of disbelief, hiding the shaking in her voice.
''I got pretty far.'' It was that tone again.
''-Together. '' She wondered if it sounded as lame to him, as it did in her head.
They faltered again.
She looked at him through her lashes, Bruce watching her like he was seeing her for the first time. Her impassive face the total mask of her emotion. The warmth in his chest grew again, expanding.
''Why I was foolish enough to believe in a spy- to think you were honest about anything?'' It was more a mutter to himself, an incredulous cadence, as he pushed his hair back.
She looked up at him sharply; his words hitting like a slap. Her lips quivered for a moment, her mind holding back the defence she so desperately wanted. As much as she loved to let her quick wit make the most of herself in argument, she was too acutely aware that this was going somewhere dangerous. Bruce's fingers were beginning to flinch, his brows had been set flat and tense for minutes, and she doubted he even noticed.
''I was- I am! …look just stop, you're spiralling out-'' she tried to calm her voice but it came out as a bitter bite.
''Of control? That's such a fear isn't it? Wondering what I'll do? What'll happen to you if the Other Guy-'' he scoffed at her projection, enjoying the slipping of control, anticipating dropping from the ledge of civility they both perched on.
''The Other Guy ISN'T showing up!'' Her voice was final this time. Her cold eyes glaring daggers into his. But he merely gave her a crazed smile.
''Ha! He's the one who took me here! Took me here away from you- But, no, I'm not the one spiralling Natasha. What afraid to lose control? Afraid to fight for something?'' He steeped closer, towering over her. A rush of adrenaline shot though him, he felt his bulging veins coarse fire from his toes to his fingertips. She was trembling, keeping her face stoic, but he was aware of her muscles vibrating softly. She didn't move away.
''I'm not afraid of anything. I'm not afraid-'' she softened her voice again, he wondered if she believed herself.
''You're terrified- you're here no orders to follow. Just waiting for the next command are we? Doing it all by the book as if that's going to fit here. I don't want your recited apologies.'' He saw emotion in her eyes, a wet sheen came across them.
''I'm sorry, I don't-'' she murmured unsure what heaviness was holding her. She was always able to brush insults off, easily able to pretend to be vulnerable. But it had been years- it had been decades -since she felt so naked. He had stripped her of her confidence, stuck in undetected and now he knew enough to pull her apart. She shut her eyes against the thought, trying to unlodge him from her mind.
''Why did you come here? Why would you come without orders to a man who hates you?'' There was a greenish tinge to his skin, the words harsh and twisted. And then she realised there wasn't anything she could do to fix this.
''There is no order, I told you that. I- I just needed to see you- I wanted to know that you were alright. And obviously you're fine, so I'll just leave and go back.'' She turned, feeling the last hope drop from within her. The heavy feeling pressed harder making it difficult to breathe, she wondered if she was finally dying of loneliness.
Bruce was still humming with power, he flexed his fingers again. And then he saw her face as she turned away: defeated. And the power he felt turned to nausea. He had done this. He had enjoyed, twistedly, breaking her down. And she could have been his mother with that broken look- those eyes. So familiar a life time ago when he watched his father lord over someone the same way. He stopped for a moment, breathing in deeply and thought what he was meant to do instead. He thought about Natasha, what she might be feeling, pushing past the guilt to the reason she came here. And then it suddenly made sense.
''Back to what? The Avengers are finished- you can't be a spy now your face is all over the news. What do you want, Natasha?'' His voice was softer now, trying to solve a puzzle.
''I don't know. I- I don't belong anywhere!'' She broke off, her voice rising. He stared straight back at her half surprised he'd ever made her break from her impossibly rivalling self-control.
Bruce watched her shoulders slump, her entire body seemed to waver and lean against the frame of the door. For the first time he saw her for her true physical size, and she was so small. The red curls fell in front of her face, eyes wide open. He saw her fall apart into beautiful shards- part of him satisfied, another part heart-broken. Natasha's lips quivered, shaking breaths getting louder and erratic with each breath. They cut the air- ugly and brutal as she fell gracelessly to her arse, white shaking hands coming up to grab at her roots. And she was pitiful.
Something in him dropped, a pity he didn't know he had for the spy. And he found himself crouching in front of her, wrapping his own hands around her wrists and pulling them away.
'''Tasha- 'Tasha stop. Look you're having a panic attack- I need you to look at me.'' Her grey-green eyes watched him blurred and wet, ''that's it. Now watch me, I'm going to count and every number we're going to breathe, in and then out. One-'' he sucked in air, exaggerating his facial expression. ''Two…..three…you're safe, you're here, okay…..four….with me….and five….big breath….six-'' he broke off counting and her eyes bulged impossibly wider, watching his totally lost like her only lifeline.
Her hands were still in her hair, gripping the red tresses, his palms wrapped around her white wrists. Subconsciously, his thumbs rubbed little circles to the skin. Damn it, he had to admit she was begrudgingly strong, and stubborn. Her fingers seemed stuck where they twisted, his gentle tugs unable to pull her away.
''Okay, okay stop- you're going to hurt yourself- 'Tash come on its okay. It's just me-''
''No-the-t-Black W-widow-'' her voice broke, but she bit her lip to stem the blubber, ''-cry-.''
He watched her white lips tremble one last time before there was no anger left in him to resent her. He let his knees drop to the floor, extending to wrap his entire self around her. She leant her forehead into his shoulder.
''Right now you're Natasha, and she can cry if she needs to.'' He muttered into her hair, the whole of his palm cupping the back of her head. She was warm and plaint now, letting him pull her into him. She began to heave, sobs wracking the entirety of her being. Crying for all the things she hadn't been allowed to. He allowed her to be sad about being lonely, feeling lost between a feud she didn't want to be a part of. She cried for her loss of self; for caring but not letting herself care. She cried for herself, she cried for him, she cried for the war the world hadn't got to yet.
And the whole while he sat. Holding her physically together so she couldn't dissolve into nothing. He murmured nothings to her, letting her get it all out. His knees began to match the aching of his heart, but he waited patiently. He waited until she had exhausted herself to wracking blubs. Where he moved to get the tissue from his trouser pocket, she took it gratefully. Making a noise of disgust at herself, he merely held her tighter, allowing her exhaustion to prop against him.
He let her nap fretfully against him for a while. Awkwardly trying to soothe her twitching dreams, but nothing seeming to work much. His back ached from the way he was sat, his hips twisted painfully. His arm tingled all the way down to his wrist. But he couldn't say he honestly minded. When she kicked out with a lost yelp he decided he needed to move her. Tentatively, he shook her arm, careful to not to startle an assassin taught to kill and ask questions later. She wined a little as she transitioned to consciousness.
Wordlessly she looked at him, her eyes ringed with the dark haunted exhaustion he had seen in her earlier. She moved her shoulder of his arm, and he immediately rotated it- god that felt so good. Still silent, Natasha removed her weight off of him, her cheeks flashing a rosy pink. He felt cold where her body had been.
''Come on, bed time.'' His voice was husky.
She stood up, stretching carefully. He followed on protesting legs. The air felt awkward, neither certain of what to do, and too tired to hazard a guess. So instead he showed her to the bedroom, switching the sidelight on and presenting her a clean, pair of pyjamas, taking another for himself.
She glanced round, it want massive, but it wasn't so small it was claustrophobic either. The duvet sat messily made in pale blue sheets, soft lighting framed the room in a nice glow. She smiled at the dreamcatcher hung above the bed. It felt safe here and she was intruding in that space. Guilt caught in her throat, along with something more unfamiliar, more unidentifiable….
As he turned to leave the room he heard her voice: ''Bruce, I can't take your bed.''
''You need a good sleep, Natasha, trust me the sofa isn't going to do that.'' He looked at her sad leaning form, ruefully smiling in encouragement. He had slept worse places, but then again, probably, so had she.
''Then-''
''Then you will sleep here, and I will sleep on the sofa.'' He kept his voice hushed, but firm. Hoping she wasn't going to push it, because he was mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted.
She looked at him scrutinising for a moment, he raised an eyebrow at her waiting for her assessment to be made. She nodded, picking up the pyjama top. Realising she had conceded, and was going to start getting herself ready he turned, walking the step to the door. Before stepping out he caught her eyes for one last time.
'''Tasha,'' he waited for her quiet hum, ''I'm right out here if you need anything.''
She blinked, breathing out a 'thank you' she knew he couldn't have heard. She watched his small lopsided smile, and then she watched him close the door behind him, leaving her alone.
She pulled on the pyjama shirt; it was soft flannel, well-worn but comforting. It smelt of the same washing power Clint used, but also something undefinably him. As she sat on the bed the same smell, only stronger drifted up. It was him, musky and spiced. She felt her muscles relax at the smell, her hands ghosting over the plush duvet.
She lay in his bed; huddled into herself. It all smelt of him. And looking she knew it was his room too. The pillow next to hers had a dent where his head would've been- his books perched on the bedside table, one on the floor where he'd fallen asleep reading. One of those alarm clocks that use light to gradually wake you next to them- any detail in hope of reducing flares of stress. She imagined the circumstances that would've led them to both be in this bed- but there was no way she could press a re-do button. Still, she allowed her mind to drift to the 'what ifs', hating herself for letting herself be so weak, but inexplicably needing an alternative reality where something was good.
She drifted off to her idealistic thoughts and the light sound of Bruce's heavy breathing (practically snores) from the next room.
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She woke up tangled in the soft duvet, fighting to detangle her leg from a dream. It wasn't the best way to wake up but it certainly wasn't her worst. Pushing back the sweaty curls from her face, she lay flat on her back looking at the ceiling, mind waking up to analyse and process everything. Sighing she got up, taking note of the alarm clock's time: 10:32. The first non-hospitalised lay in she had had for years.
Her feet reached the carpet at an unfamiliar height, the sudden intrusion of last night weighed in her stomach. Subconsciously, she felt her fingers fiddle with the button near her navel, needing something to do. Quietly she left the room, shutting the door behind her and sweeping a look to find the bathroom.
''Morning.'' His voice came out as a husky bark, groggy disturbed sleep still on him.
She twirled round, Bruce lay awkwardly on the sofa is head propped up on the arm so he could fit. He was rubbing his neck, the guilt flew back through her.
''Morning.'' Her voice was more certain and sure than she felt.
He sat up, the blanket falling from his naked chest. She watched the tight muscles move under his skin, the sprinkle of chest hair leading up into dark stubble. He seemed to be somewhere similar as he rubbed his chin, conscious of his unkempt appearance. He got up, back cracking, and he sighed pleasantly. She watched him wordlessly move the cushions back properly and fold the blanket into a neat pile, flushing as she caught a good view of his behind.
''There's clean towels in the bathroom already- use whatever you need.'' He tried again to clear the air, but the stagnant awkwardness remained between them.
They stood on opposite sides of the room for a moment. She in an oversized shirt grazing her bare thighs, he in the near matching bottoms missing the top. Both were exhausted and embarrassed. Both had a multitude of things they needed to tell, but they didn't understand it themselves. So instead he watched her move toward the bathroom door, watched it close with a sharp click behind her.
He learn moments after that he had next to nothing in the house to offer her for breakfast; so he left a bowl and an old box of stale bran flakes on the side. Putting the kettle on to boil. Meanwhile he went back to his bedroom to grab clothes whilst she showered. The room was practically the same as it had always been. But there was a change in the air- it was exposed. Everything sat where it was meant to, except the duvet was helplessly balled up, and her clothes bunched up in a pile on the floor. He blushed at the sight of twisted knickers, wordlessly leaving a pair of his own boxers and a t-shirt should she need something clean to put on. Then he straightened the bed, another life lesson his mother had taught him, pulling open the window in hope he could dissipate the electric air.
The kettle whistled tentatively, slowly growing louder. He moved to make himself a cup of tea, naturally making a second cup and leaving it by the bowl. He sat down at the cramped table, pulling the nearest reading material he had toward him. He heard the shower turn off, and then a moment later she darted out, towel wrapped round her dark auburn hair dripping down her back. He pretended not to notice, moving the week old newspaper back onto the table, placing the tea next to it.
He showered quickly, changing straight into his clothes after having a shave and making himself vaguely presentable. The last thing he needed was her thinking he couldn't function as a normal member of society.
When he came out the bathroom she was chewing on the stale cereal, her teeth crunching relentlessly between swigs of tea. It would have been funny if it weren't for the tension in the air. Her wet hair was looped behind her ears, it made her look younger. She was wearing his t-shirt, her hair leaving dark patches on her shoulders, as he tried not to think if she was wearing his boxers under her jeans too.
''So,'' she put the bowl down, the spoon chiming against the side.
''So?'' He looked up, sat back at his table, pretending to read the paper.
''I should probably leave. Thank you, for- well, you know.'' He saw her take a deep breath, glad he wasn't the only one feeling so out of place.
He knew he should say no problem, maybe lie and say it was nice having her, or that he hoped she had a nice trip. He wondered if he should tell her a parting truth that she had messed up his chance of living here in this godforsaken city because after she left it would never be comfortable again. But he surprised himself when his mouth only formed one word.
''Stay.''
''What?'' She sounded as surprised as he was.
He took a sip of tea to buy himself time to figure out what the fuck his mind was doing without informing him first. He thought it through, making a show of swallowing his drink to exaggerate his moment to think.
''You should stay. You said so yourself you don't know where you're going next, so spend a day or two here to figure it out.'' He was even more surprised it made sense, and that he meant it. As much as his feeling for Natasha were- conflicted- he couldn't leave her with no one to turn to. He'd never forgive himself for letting her get back to the state she was in yesterday.
''You don't have to house me out of pity.'' Her voice was even, confident, but he could see behind her eyes a lingering need to be needed.
''I'm not. I'm housing you because we're friends. We were friends right?'' He'd finished his tea, slipping the empty mug on the table he diverted his eyes allowing her to take the courage.
''Yeah,'' she paused breathless, ''yeah, okay, thank you.''
Natasha turned back to the bowl, rinsing it quickly in the sink. Her shoulders deflated, hearing his turn the page of some item from the mountain of paper and books that was supposedly the dining room table.
A few days didn't sound like a lot of time to make a plan and piece your vigilante life back together, but it was more time than Natasha had had in a long time. She wondered what you do on your time off- other than get blind drunk or hit the gym. She sat wordlessly on the sofa, resting in the worn dip of the seat cushion; it was no exaggeration it wasn't the comfiest place she could've slept. At that thought she looked across, analysing Bruce carefully to see if he was aching from a night having his bed stolen.
After a moment he looked across, aware of the heavy piercing gaze, she averted her eyes but it was too late. Both of them blushed and purposely looked only in their laps for the next half hour. Natasha pulled a month old TV guide from the coffee table, flipping through it, pausing to read an article for something to do. It only served to add to the rising pressure in the room.
Natasha and Bruce were aware of each agonising minute going past; the aid of the mantle clock ticking away their time as the tension grew. Both thought they should say something, anything, but neither could think of anything to say. It was another twenty minutes before Natasha slapped the TV guide next to her and sprung up. Bruce looked up at her politely.
''I'm going to go out-'' she announced.
He watched he disappear into his room for a minute reappearing with shoes, a coat and her bag. She threw them on, and honestly he couldn't blame her. He'd be clawing his way out of this room if his lagging brain could've thought of an excuse. She said goodbye again, stating she had her phone and should be back 'later'. Bruce knew that later wouldn't be anytime soon.
As soon as she was gone from his apartment he felt like he could breathe again.
He moved to settle on his spot on the sofa, stopping to make a second cup of tea and turn the radio on quietly. Once settled he pulled a textbook toward himself, placing one of Tony's old speculations about gamma radiation on the arm and set to trying to make the physics work.
Bruce was happy to waste away his time this way, hours passed by without him noticing, only stopping to make a quiet note with a pencil, or mutter to himself. The chime of his clock hit seven, exactly, as he heard a shuffling outside.
Natasha opened the door unceremoniously. Her cheeks flared red but other than that no effort showed on her face, clutched in her hands were heavy, grocery bags.
He was banned from the small kitchenette for the next forty minutes. He assumed it was because of his crimes against food, at least she had hinted as much. She had forced the white door partition closed for the first time since they'd been put in. Instead, he sat pretending to read on the sofa. Pretending to read, because he was enjoying listen to the noises of someone else in the apartment. He had to admit it was nice to have someone who knew him around. To not just be sat a bar for the hustle and bustle of other people. Here his guard was –somewhat- lowered.
Natasha listened to the radio as she cooked, he could hear the songs buzzing through the apartment. Occasionally, she wold grunt or there'd be a small clatter of dishes- but within twenty minutes a delicious smell permeated the air.
She came out, moving the stacks of books and papers for the small table in the corner, looking round for a place to set them.
''Need any help?'' He put his book to the side, not like he was getting anywhere with it anyway.
''No thanks,'' she smiled but handed him the papers anyway.
He settled them on the mantel piece, carefully stacking them so they wouldn't fall. Then he helped her move the table away from the wall.
''It smells great, whatcha cooking?'' Bruce put his hands in his pocket, unsure what he was meant to do as a guest in his own home.
''Spinach and ricotta lasagne, that alright?'' She came back out the kitchen with a bowl of salad and bottle of wine. She placed them on the table. Carefully nudging a stray fork back to its rightful place as she did.
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''This is amazing Natasha, I've not had anything this good in a long time.'' Bruce happily forked another bite. His taste buds were forced from the monotony of toast and the tofu rice he had almost every night for dinner.
''I'd say don't flatter me, but by the content of your fridge I know you're not.'' She paused a moment smirking. After biting another forkful she looked him directly in the eye, ''you really need to eat more protein- tofu alone isn't good enough.''
''Who knew the Black Widow gave nutritional information between her day job as spy and Avenger.'' He smirked back at her, taking a sip of the wine in front of him.
''Laugh it up, Bruce.'' She stared right into his eyes, watching the mischievous grin on his face, trying not to think about the last time he'd had a chance to exercise his wit so far from Tony and the others. Not that that was her fault, but it kind of was.
''And who knew she could cook!'' He continued, oblivious to the onslaught of guilt crashing over his dinner partner.
''I resent that!'' She tried a weak smile, and its falsity seemed to go unnoticed.
''I always figured you spent most of your time wining and dining with the criminal elite.'' His voice was more sober now, but his eyes still glistening with something.
''On missions, yes, but I do have to eat when I'm at home or training. Besides, it's only lasagne- it's not like I'm a secret housewife.'' She pulled her own glass up to her lips, gracefully swigging a large mouthful, wary of the direction Bruce and teasing would go.
''Not the job for you?'' His head tilted, and she thought of puppies.
''No,'' her brow furrowed as if wondering to speak or not, after the slightest of pauses she continued, ''I think I threw the idea of romance and trust out when I was about 11. It's only now that I'm starting to think if that's what I really want? I sacrificed a personal life a long time ago.''
''Nothing would change that?'' He caught her eyes again over his wine glass.
''I didn't think anything ever would.''
Her voice was soft, it seemed to filter into the small gap of pregnant air, silence sitting between them. Her heart beat quickened, a physiological effect of this sort of vulnerability she had been trained to evade. She focused on keeping her face impassive, to not show her exposure. Once done he turned her attention to him; subtly watching the twitch of his lower lip and then a soft crinkle between his brow.
''Just ask, Bruce.'' The voice was automatic, her eyes challenging him, knowing the conversation had turned too far to turn back to the light teasing.
''Why me? What did you possibly see in me?'' He looked right back at her for a moment, and then looked down at his empty plate.
Wordlessly he got up, picking up both the plates and putting them on the side. Noiselessly, she had joined him, holding out a topped up glass of wine. He took it gratefully, unsure if he wanted to continue.
''Bruce- you're a genius, you're sweet and caring- you never once treated me like anything but a lady and a teammate….yes, you have a very real, very green Mr Hyde, but...but so what?'' Her hands were doing most of the talking, and she was conscious of it. Bruce was too insecure about himself to ever admit those qualities were true, to ever dream that people could actually like him in spite of the Other Guy.
''But that's not what got your attention?'' His brows furrowed again.
''No, no I suppose not.'' She moved to the sofa, sitting down heavily and rubbing her eyes.
''Then what did?'' He sat beside her, deciding he was too far into his curiosity to back out now.
''This conversation may be difficult to hear-'' she gulped her wine for liquid courage, giving him a cursory glance.
''I can take it.''
''I didn't mean for you.'' Her voice was softly considerate again, a sad smile tugging at her lips.
He looked at her. Taking in the freaking Black Widow hiding out in his apartment in yesterday's tight leather-look jeans and his t-shirt, her hair in wilder curls than the precision of the normal 1920's style. He liked her like this, looking so…so natural. But it scared him too. It was too easy to forget who she was, what she was capable of. It way too easy to forget that Natasha and the Black Widow were one and the same. She could tell him anything and he'd never know if it were the truth because she was trained to make him believe what she said. She was trained to hold back the whole truth, to spin a web of deceit with enough half-truths to make it plausible. So why did he bother asking, if he knew whatever answer she gave could or could not be true, and that he'd never know if it were?
He took a sip of wine.
But she wasn't just the Black Widow. He had to believe that, right now, she was just Natasha. That she was the wit and the remnants of a raw person under the persona.
She coughed lightly, looking at him before sighing, taking another gulp of wine and then opening her mouth:
''That day on the helicarrier. When it was going down, and the Other Guy- I don't know how much you remember but we fell, the both of us together. My leg was trapped and you were going green. I didn't know what to do- the Hulk didn't like me too much, I don't think. I was …scared. I was terrified and I hadn't been terrified in years. And I couldn't have that kind of fear.''
She stopped, breaking eye contact with him finally.
''So you faced your fear head on?'' He nudged her ever so slightly with his thigh against hers. Recognising the difficulty in Natasha even admitting she knew what fear was, let alone that she had been afraid. Afraid of him. He swallowed his disgust at having done that to her though he had no control.
''I'm still not the biggest fan of the Hulk, but he doesn't scare me as much, his potential is frightening.'' She seemed to read his thoughts, as she continued. ''But he's part of my team, and he's part of you. I wanted, I needed to understand you to try to understand him and somewhere along the way- '' she paused, locking her eyes with his soft brown ones, ''the feelings I had for you were real. I hope you know that''.
''I do.'' It came out so softly he doubted she had heard him.
They took a minute to commemorate what hadn't happened between them. Mercilessly allowing the love sick air to have its moment of heavy tension, but neither willing enough to break their truce. Pushing her hair behind her ear, smiling as he watched her with glazed eyes, Natasha finally broke the air.
''More wine?'' She got the bottle, pouring the last of the wine into their glasses.
''You trying to get me drunk?'' He smiled at her, accepting the glass.
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And that's just what they did. Now sat cross-legged on the floor- the coffee table holding two empty glasses, and two empty wine bottles. They held a third between them giggling and taking turns swinging straight from the green glass.
''My question! –Wine, please- Tony, Steve and Clint- Fuck, Marry and Kill?'' Natasha took the bottle off of him, giggling and sipping at the same time, barely managing not to choke.
''Thor not on the list?'' Bruce laughed, hitting his shoulder against her. She laughed out loud, her cheeks flaring that brilliant shade of red once again. He loved making her laugh, it make him feel all fuzzy.
''Why? Are you disappointed?'' Natasha stuck the tip of her pink tongue out, doing her signature eyebrow quirk.
He snorted as he drank, ''hmm, marry Steve? Clint's already married and I reckon Steve'd be old fashioned-keep me as a kept husband maybe? I'd make him dinner and tidy our house….''
Natasha made a noise between a snort and a bark, taking the bottle once again.
''Okay, who do you take to bed?'' She turned to him, watching him quirk his mouth sideways as if in thought.
''Tony. Then I suppose I kill Clint, sorry.'' She watched his shoulders shrug under the thin shirt, enjoying watching his so deliciously dishevelled. His hair was stuck up from where his hands had ran through it, cheeks flushed pink from the wine, lips red and his throat exposed as he threw his head back to laugh. He was everything she had told herself she could never have. Everything that she wanted, but far too precious for someone like her. Only she didn't want anyone else to have him either.
''I forgive you. But seriously- Tony?'' Her voice was lilting, freer than usual, finding her sounding how he imagined it in his mind for the last few months.
''The offers been made.'' He winked at her aghast face, not missing a beat so he could avoid that particular backstory. ''What about you?''
''What about me?'' She winked back, leaning into him so he could smell the wine mixed with her perfume. He suddenly felt intoxicated. His eyes hovered on her wine stained lips, watching their dark centre pull into an open cackle.
''Steve, Clint and Tony?'' His voice was weak, still hypnotised by her stunning proximity.
''Nope.'' She extended the 'p' sound, knowing exactly what she was doing to him. She finally leaned back, leaving it a moment before elaborating; ''you're gonna have to be more original than that.''
And it took everything that was in him to think of names, of any names, so he didn't look like a total idiot. ''Thor, Pepper and ...Spiderboy?'' It sounded like he was questioning himself, so he coughed hoping to make it sound more certain.
''Firstly, its Spiderman- that kid's got talent, but I can't rob the cradle, particularly of my fellow baby arachnids- so I'd have to kill him.'' She sipped a bit from the bottle diplomatically.
''Wise choice, you like 'em older then?'' Bruce looked at her again, happy at his own wit for finally catching up.
She laughed from her stomach, ''so, Thor and Pepper? Fuck Pepper- I'm not sure I could live with her on a long time commitment.'' Natasha passed him the bottle, where he took a swig, swallowing and tilting his head once again.
''Redheads not for you?'' He smiled, his teeth edged with temporary red.
''I don't want any rivals.'' For a moment she sounded truly affronted, but her own charade made her bite back a laugh, finding yourself funny probably signals that you should stop drinking, she thought. ''I suppose that means I marry Thor- hey, does that mean I get to be a Queen? Oh yeah, definitely marry Thor.''
They talked a little while longer, laughing and joking between themselves. Somewhere in the fits of giggles over nothing and semi-interesting conversation, Natasha had lay her head on his shoulder, he wrapped his arm around her, his cheek resting atop of the buoyant hair.
''Bruce, when's the last time you did it?'' Her voice was as slurred as his own, though they had finished the third bottle over half an hour ago.
''Betty.'' He readjusted his cheek so he was further atop her head, breathing in the calming scent of his own shampoo and her.
''Before or after the Other Guy?'' she asked carefully not being to see his face to judge the amount she could push this. Instead she paid attention to his heart beat, readjusting her shoulder carefully to be inconspicuous, against his chest.
He felt her voice vibrate through his jaw he smiled sadly, thought she couldn't see it. ''Before'', he paused, ''it didn't feel safe- I didn't feel safe.''
''And with me?''
''I care for you, Natasha. And I do worry- this amount of control is difficult sometimes the Other Guy just needs a slip, what if-'' he caught himself, breathing her in once again. ''It's harder to control myself with you around. Nerves and –well, arousal- I mean just look at you, but sometimes I can't help myself- don't want to. But I'm scared he'll hurt you-''
He was cut off by her soft lips suddenly pressing against his. She leant too far in- using him to hold herself up. His lips pressed immediately back to hers. His hands winding into her hair automatically as if that's where they were meant to be. She wasted no time in climbing atop of him, her knees touching the ground either side of his. She felt him growl into the kiss, but it didn't scare her.
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Somewhere in his clouded haze of happiness (or horniness) and tipsy demeanour he found enough thought to realise where he wanted this to head. Carefully, he pushed her off him, clambering up the sofa to offer her a hand. Smirking she took it, pulling herself up so her hand brushed his bottom. He felt his cheeks burn red.
Giggling like teenagers they slunk toward the bedroom, stopping every five seconds to kiss messily, trying to figure out each other's rhythm. The documents and books from the mantel fell crashing to the ground; he didn't mind pulling her across the papers. Crumbling them to oblivion as long as he got her into his bed.
He blindly groped for the door handle, her hands finding their way under his shorts before he had chance to grab it. The door swung open and the two of them fell backwards laughing, steading each other.
And then they were kissing again.
He was breathless.
She wrapped her legs around him, legs that had choked as many men as she had lethally bedded. The squeezed his waist, and he was aware of the potential. Her hair tickled his cheek, her hot hands burning an imprint of her palms to his chest. He wondered where his head was headed. And before the urgent, hormones were able to win out his senses gave a sudden overpowering.
''Wait-'' he tried to pull away but she merely attacked his neck, her neck pulling the tender skin in far too distracting way. His throat made a whine as he tried to remember the train of thought. ''Wait, 'Tasha.''
She pulled back a little bit, raising a questioning eyebrow at him. That little quirk held enough sarcastic questioning for her to forgo the matching comment. Her shoulders slumped ever so minutely, and he found his train of thought.
''You're not- you don't have to do this-''
She made a noise of agreement, leaning forward to attack his neck again, but he softly laid his hands on her shoulders.
''I mean, you don't owe me anything. Don't do this because you feel obliged, because you want me to forgive you- or, or if this isn't because you want to. I can't do this unless I can trust you to answer me honestly: Natasha, do you want this right now?
Her lips parted their small frown, her eyebrows knitted.
''Yes. Bruce, yes. Please.'' She was positively sinful.
He growled again, the noise reverberating through her. His eyes stayed the same steady warm brown- and so she leaned back watching him. Slowly, she raised the bottom of her t-shirt up- the vast material exposing her flat white stomach and then over the green satin of her bra. Purposely grinding her hips, suddenly, she reached behind her back unclasping the bra throwing it behind her. She mastered the sultry confidence, she knew exactly what she was doing as she raised her white hands to grope her own breasts, eyes never leaving his.
He made a noise that sounded like 'oh dear mother of God' and a choke mixed all in one. His pupils blown out, biting his own lips to suppress any other confused noises.
She looked far too smug for her own good. Bruce reached out holding her around the waist and flipping their positions. Her smile wavered at his dominance, and he wondered if it was difficult for her to not be in control. He planted soft kisses on her shoulders, stroking her arms, goose-bumps appeared in his wake. He felt her take a deep breath in and then out again; her body relaxing into his kisses. Carefully he looked at her, wanting to impart his emotions to her but unsure how welcome they would be to either of them.
She swallowed and moved her hand to play in his curls, her nails lightly scratching at his scalp as he swept his kisses along her collar bone and then across her breasts. He liked hearing her gasp and hum- her back arching in pleasured when he bit the supple flesh gently.
His hand caught the button of her trousers, popping it open. He pulled down the zip letting her aid him in pulling the tight material over her arse. He stopped a moment smiling.
''I think these belong to me,'' he whispered into his ear, pulling at the old familiar plaid boxers she was wearing. His hand pushed inside of them finding her wet and waiting. She moaned against his ear. Feeling more vulnerable than she ever had.
He treated her like she was something precious, something special. And each gentle caress, each little lingering on freckles and scars, made her think that possible she could be. She'd never felt like this, so emotionally connected with anyone- her body and her mind were fighting for dominance.
Bruce for all he was worth was aware of the internal fight, after all, he had his own control issues to handle. He felt the Hulk under his skin itching for release of this torturous anticipation.
He had manged to entirely pull the trousers off, the boxers came off easily after that. He took his time kissing her sharp hip bones, holding her ample hips down as he discovered more. She was vocal enough that he could base his ministrations off of the noises she was making. Letting her whimper at the intense pressure of his mouth and tongue, before moving back to lightly teasing her. Each time her hips would raise toward his face, the ultimate show of trust. And when she was spent, panting spread-eagled, he captured the image to memory. His heart beating wildly, dangerously, fast.
She looked at him with heavy lidded eyes, controlling her own breath, but watching the sheer carnal pride on his face. It was so contrasting to the gentle furrow of his normal brow that she felt herself twitch with anticipation again. She sat up, all the while watching him. Her hands wrapped around his neck, pushing their sweating fames against each other, trapping his arousal between them.
Then she kissed him sweetly. It was slow and lingering, a languid mix of tongue, as one hand snaked into his hair the other between them. He groaned into the kiss as she wrapped her hand around him, having to pull back as the pumping action started. His heartbeat was uncomfortably high, his veins felt like they were going to explode. He took a steadying breath, pushing the Hulk back from his consciousness.
But when she echoed a soft trail of kisses down his body, the adrenaline shot down his spine, almost paralysing him with pleasure. God, it felt so good. Her lips had only just wrapped around him but he couldn't catch his breath.
''Aa-ah 'Tasha- stop- you're gonna have to stop.'' His hands were on his shoulders, trembling. She immediately stopped, pulling back and looking at him. Damn it, that didn't help. The image of her on her hands and knees, saliva on her face, big eyes staring up at him was burnt onto his eyelids.
He jerked away, throwing his legs over the side of the bed, too shaky to actually stand up. He counted out loud for a minute, scrambling the numbers in his mind. The hulk was angry at him for trapping him so close to escape, and another part of his brain was screaming at him for messing up the best thing that's happened to his poor under-loved penis in years. He shook his head trying to dislodge both voices.
Another minute or two passed before he was able to unscrew his eyes, he looked up at her. She was exactly where he left her except the lustful gaze had turned into concern, her breathing, too, evened. He gave another curse to himself.
''I'm sorry- it's just I can't-'' shame creeped up his neck, his arms wrapping around himself.
'''Don't apologise,'' she finally moved to sit beside him, her feet not even grazing the floor. ''Besides I'm not finished with this experiment of ours.''
She smiled at him honestly, it forced him to take another deep breath. The kind smile tugged a little bit at his silence, her hand coming to rest on the top of his arm burning him with her heat.
''We'll try again right? We'll find a way to make this work for you?'' Her voice sounded so earnest, almost desperate with need.
Standing up off the bed he covered himself with a towel awkwardly, he didn't miss the sarcastic raise of an eyebrow but she didn't say anything else. He muttered, his head spinning, ''God, what did I do in a past life to deserve this? Yes. Yes, we'll find a way- but, right now I need to cool off. I'm going to go take a shower-no, do not say anything about joining me, I will have a heart attack!'' he caught her cheeky expression and then she play pouted at him. He walked out the room quickly, hearing her laugh from his bed.
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He stood naked against the bathroom door for a few minutes. His breathing began to even as he pushed the delightful imagery from his mind, needing his pulse to slow down because the grips of control felt like they were slipping. The edge of the alcohol and his arousal span round his head, making rational thought difficult.
When he finally made it into the cold shower, he was conscious enough to bare his teeth at the frigid water. But it worked slowly his mental capacity seemed to clear off, his muscles becoming less tense. He felt the Hulk ebb away from right under his skin, back to a lingering presence and he finally felt clean enough to get out and dry himself off. Realising he hadn't any clothes with him, he wrapped the towel around his waist suddenly conscious of his lithe, hairy chest.
She was sat up in his bed like she naturally belonged. His pyjama top was back on her but the top few buttons remained undone, her mused hair and the small red marks of his kisses preventing an innocent picture being made. She smiled fully; her teeth showing and a gentle calmness in her eyes he couldn't help but smile back at.
''Coming to bed?'' Her voice was hushed. Once again he wondered if this was some cosmic apology for a shitty life so far.
''Just getting my pyjamas-'' he smiled back, picking up the blanket.
''You're not thinking of sleeping on the sofa are you?'' She looked at him, and he paused because that was exactly what he was thinking.
''Well-''
''You're such a dork! Look you're sleeping here,'' she indicated to the spot next to her, ''it's your bed and I promise I won't grope you… I promise I'll try not to grope you.''
She did her little pout again, tilting her head to look cute. When he broke out in a smile she couldn't help but match him with her own. Excitedly, she pulled back the duvet, patting the space. He quickly found and pulled his pyjamas on, slipping in between the warm sheets. True to her word she stayed where she was, merely grinning at him like a lunatic.
''Come here,'' he made it sound like an exasperated sigh, stretching out his arm and offering her his chest. She immediately moved across resting her smooth cheek against him, her arm wrapped around his middle, listening to his heart beat rhythmically. As they lay in silence he felt his heart beat decrease, his muscles full un-tensed. He smelt his shampoo in her hair and the weighting pull of her embrace. And it felt safe. He felt safe.
The Black Widow's eyes fluttered closed, the eyelashes brushing against him. Her lips quirked into a restful smile as she fell into the first non-nightmared night of sleep she could remember. Her quiet exhales, the type that caught carefully in her throat, brought him to his own sleep. His mind quietened- nothing concrete blaring at him, just the gravity of feeling human- of feeling loved- tugging him toward dreams.