Notes: My Bruce/Maria partner-in-crime, Nat, mostly came up with these. It's her fault. Merry Christmas.

1.

It's snowing in New York – not at the Tower, which was cored like an apple a week ago and still had repairmen crawling all over it – but at the Stark Mansion, which Tony dubbed the 'Avenger's Mansion' until further notice.

A flurry of housecleaners had dusted off the cobwebs and reignited the pilot lights, bringing the rustic but weirdly homey Victorian house back to a livable state.

Right now Bruce and Natasha are the only ones making use of the space, though he doesn't actually know where Natasha is in the house. He's well aware that he'll know where she is if she wants him to know, and he's oddly content with her dictating those terms. So far she's used her advantage to steal breakfast bacon while he got his glasses from the library, and half his turkey sandwich at lunch.

Now he's working on a quiche that's in the oven, just about to brown, and the doorbell rings. "JARVIS?" he asks curiously, surprised but unconcerned; the two reverse when he hears it's Director Hill.

"Would you like me to relay a message?" JARVIS asks, and Bruce shakes his head, turning the oven off,

"I've got it. Thanks."

If it's an emergency, there won't be time to enjoy the quiche, but there's a small chance it would keep until they got back. If, on the other hand, it was a social visit, it would finish cooking with the residual heat.

Bruce checks the peephole out of habit, pulling the door open to reveal Maria bundled up against the weather in a long coat and tactical boots.

"Can you believe those idiots?" Maria huffs the moment she sees him, the lines of her face relaxing into indignation, stomping her boots free of the snow that clings to them with irritation.

"Which, idiots?" Bruce asks, cautiously bemused, stepping aside as Maria makes her way in, unwinding her scarf and pulling off her hat – the snow peppering the fabric melts against her hands, and he closes the door behind her, staring at the way her hair's mussed at the back from her hat. A lock of strands curves rebelliously to the left just at the nape of her neck, but their slowly budding… intimacy, doesn't yet extend to foyer hair smoothing.

Maria spies the coat rack, and doffs her coat, hanging it on the hook, wrapping her scarf around that and hanging her hat on top, while she answers, "The MTA. Bunch of mindless morons running around that place, it's a nightmare. Completely useless, all of them – are you making something?" she asks, sniffing the air. The smell of the quiche has made its way out from the kitchen, and despite the abrupt shift of topic, Bruce finds himself nodding,

"Quiche. Did you want some?"

Maria smiles warmly, and he's pretty sure he hasn't forgotten a social engagement with her. "That'd be great, I'm starving."

"Coffee?" he asks as a follow up, leading the way to the kitchen, and he hears the happy sound she occasionally makes; it lies between a moan and a hum, and it's usually reserved for the rare times he brings coffee to her office at precisely the right time.

"Life-saver."

When they get to the kitchen the quiche is already on a cooling rack, a neatly sliced quarter of it missing. It doesn't take a second to figure out why.

"Natasha," he explains to Maria, who sits up on the counter as Bruce gets dishes and mugs. "We're the only ones around right now – I haven't seen her yet, but she's been stealing food from me all day. I'm sure she thinks it's endearing," he says dryly, setting on the kettle and pulling the French press out from under the cabinets.

Maria smirks, crossing her legs, and he finds his eyes lingering on the soft line of her neck. "Is it?"

Bruce sighs heavily, but it's clearly for show. "Unfortunately."

Maria laughs and the sound makes him smile. "Where is everyone else?" she asks, shifting slightly to the side as he reaches to open the cupboard next to her. The move has his hip pressing against her knee, but Maria doesn't make a move to regain the distance.

"Tony and Pepper are in Malibu," he tells her, taking out the coffee beans. The fingers of his free hand steady him against the countertop as he reaches, the arc of his thumb pressing against her leg. "It was time for Clint's semi-regular disappearing act, and Thor's with Jane over in Europe."

"So you got the house all to yourself then?" she asks, an eyebrow arched and a sharp, teasing curve to her lips.

The arc of his thumb naturally turns in, so his hand rests against her leg, and he shrugs, "If we're not counting the food-stealing Russian, yeah."

"Imagine all the trouble you could get up to," she suggests, just shy of a conspiratorial whisper. The sheer multitude of implications with that one line is overwhelming; the kettle blowing saves him from needing to answer, and he turns to busy himself with the coffee.

The sound of the beans grinding fill the space between them, and when he turns around, Maria's sectioned out two portions of quiche, and holds a plate in each hand. "I've always been a fan of eating on the couch at times like this," she suggests, and he nods, setting up the press before following her into the multi-media room.

The qucihe is still too hot, but delicious. Choosing a movie proves to be a little difficult, mostly because he gets the sense Maria hasn't quite finished expelling all the pent-up irritation from her day. But the delay means their plates lay discarded on the coffee table in front of them by the time they press play, only crumbs and small bits of green remaining.

Maria starts collapsing away from Bruce in minuet shifts almost instantly, as if her exhaustion has declared a secret war inside her body and is stealing it inch by inch without her knowledge.

By the time they get to the middle of the movie, she's sunk well into the arm of the couch, knees absently bumping up against Bruce's leg. He doesn't dare mention it for fear of ruining the spell, but when her boot starts nudging his calf he draws the line and hauls her feet onto his lap.

Maria startles, slightly; a quick flash of panicked uncertainty, before clamping down on it the next moment. The look she replaces it with is part resignation, part challenge, but Bruce isn't interested in anything but her comfort. Methodically, he unties the laces and pulls them loose, slipping her feet out and leaving them in his lap, finger curling loosely around her shins.

With a glance to the side he passes the ball to her – and she twists in response, bunching a pillow under her head while she stretches out properly, wedging a foot behind his back like a dare to take it all back.

It's mildly uncomfortable, but it feels like rebuffing her now carries more weight than he's willing to play with.

Eventually her leg wiggles its way out from behind his back, until her shin is flush with his thigh and her toes hook around his hip. The other foot he realizes he's still holding, so he tightens his grip, fingers drifting up her calf under her pants, past the line of her socks. Smooth, warm skin greets him, and he grips her arch with his other hand, committing to the gesture.

The happy half-moan, half-hum that comes out like a sleepily secret eases the anticipation that's been building in his shoulders, reassures him that this hasn't been a misunderstanding. For whatever reason, this is acceptable.

Maria ends up staying the night, because it's snowing and cold out, and he doesn't want her to have to deal with that – especially when she's so warm and sleepy and pliable, with the way her eyes flutter closed as he massages her feet. When he takes her hand to pull her up from the couch she moves with a vulnerability and trust that unsettles him; no one should be this unguarded around him, it's dangerous - but it feels good, too.

Natasha's lit a few candles in his room, laid out a chocolate-dipped strawberry in the middle of the bed on a gold plate, and he laughs at it all as he lays out an old shirt and sweats for Maria to change into while he uses the bathroom. Maria's curled up on the left side of the bed with her clothes in a pile on the floor when he gets back, strawberry unseated. Bruce eats it as he debates between sleeping on the armchair and going back to the couch downstairs – or using one of the other hundred bedrooms in this place, and why was giving her his bed the automatic default in the first place?

He's about to head back downstairs for the night when Maria sits up in the bed, looking around the room with grogginess he'll deny finding adorable. "Bruce?" she asks, and upon seeing him dithering between the armchair and the door, rolls her eyes and falls into the bed with exaggerated force. "Jesus fuck, Banner, just come to bed."