Dear Natasha,
The postcards always started the same. He wasn't a man of particular inventiveness when it came things outside of his lab. He buried his head in his hands running his fingers though his curls. He hadn't cut his hair in months and while at first he had found it a bit annoying it was now long enough to tie some of it back in a low pony-tail. It always seemed to be greasy and on the verge of becoming dreads of late. Sighing he tapped his pencil against the tabletop staring at what he had just written. The main parts of the letters always ended up being the same apology, the same excuse rewritten, and always the vague mention of a piece of scenery he thought she would've liked. It all sounded so…. horrible. After the battle in Sokovia he wasn't sure what made him leave. He knew he could just blame it on the Other Guy, but that didn't explain what he was doing still hiding out on this island. The locals had been willing to help him get set up with the hut he was now staying in while he agreed to help out with their medical needs. He spent most of his days helping in various ways around the main village which resulted in bandaging a lot of farm accidents and such. He spoke Pushti which seemed close to their dialect and worked for basic communication. The island was beautiful, the flowers that bloomed outside of his hut were frequently mentioned in the cards to Natasha that were piling up on the side of the table.
He couldn't avoid his subconscious, which was the thing prompting all of these petty and honestly pathetic letters. He made himself sick with how he left her and he made himself sick thinking about ever having to face her again. There was no winning for him anymore he thought sardonically remembering the night when the Cap had told him that both he and Nat deserved a win. He tried to console himself with the hope that she would still find that win. No one deserved it more than her.
Grumbling under his breath about the wretched heat Bruce pushed the card away from him and laid his glasses down on the table. He got up and removed his shirt wiping off the sweat that had formed on his brow before climbing onto the cot. There were still small rays of light seeping in through the trees around his new home and the last thought he had before he slept left a scowl of pain on his face that night.
"The sun's getting real low."
Unfortunately his letters ended the same too.
Wish you were here!
-Bruce
Please review! No flames please! Constructive criticism welcome!
-Anya