To Every Rose

by peacelovel

AoU where Bruce didn't leave and the Brutasha ship keeps on sailing. After taking the next step with Bruce, Natasha convinces herself that he doesn't need her, and takes an adventure down memory lane in Russia. I'm super bad at descriptions. Rated M for later chapters.

Hi guys! I've written my own novels before, but I've never actually written fan fiction. Be honest, but nice, please! This is my first fic! I adored Brutasha, and found it delightful, however I'm somewhat annoyed by how little pieces there are for it. Therefore, I started this one! I promise to update regularly. I want to try to keep true to Natasha's character, as opposed to overpowering it by overbearing affection. Since she started training, her life has been devoted to her work, which is why I ADORE the scene where she pushed Bruce to make him the Hulk so much. At the end of the day, she's about her work.

Thanks for reading! I own NOTHING!

Prologue:

I can't imagine how I've found my way here, past all the hardships and heartbreak. I finally have one: a home. I haven't had anywhere I felt wanted, loved, since I was caught in that godforsaken building, orphaned, left to the cruel world without any source of comfort to call my own.

Or was it when Alexi died, hardening my determination to continue down my path as the Black Widow.

But that was then. Natalia is gone now, killed by hatred and spite, and Natasha has taken her place.

Things are different, Bruce has disregarded my existence as a whole since I betrayed him, denying his request to run away, bringing the Big Guy out. The mission comes first. Always. But. . .I miss him so, his laugh, his smile, the entirety of his existence. I go about things without him, however. I mustn't show weakness, not even to Bruce, and he deserves time, to forgive. I indeed acknowledge that I used him, in a way I fear I shouldn't have. I need him like I need air to breath. My life is so dull without him.

Natasha didn't matter in that moment, doesn't matter now; the mission comes first: a mantra I repeat again and again, refusing to give into my own selfish desires.

Maybe we'll be okay again, soon. However, for now, we're trapped at a standstill, neither one able to admit they're wrong, by pride or embarrassment, or both. Instead, we find ourselves awkwardly brushing past each other in the halls, refusing to make eye-contact. Or worse, sharing eye-contact, neither looking away, neither breaking the silence, merely co-existing. I can see the devastation, the hurt in his eyes.

Yet I cannot, will not, stand up and fight the silence.