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Apologize
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Nightmares.
Again.
Sometimes it's past, shadows against the wall, yelling, crying, screaming. Hitting.
Sometimes it's present. Green. Throwing, chasing, killing. Hitting. Red.
Red hair covered in red blood.
But they always come.
He used to come down here with her, he remembers as he exits the elevator, walks down the hall to the public kitchen. They each have their own on their private floor, but somehow they always ended up at this one. Maybe it had something to do with common ground and shared food. He takes out a mug and thinks of the times they would just sit there, sometimes talking, sometimes laughing, sometimes silent. Just sitting and drinking tea, eating an ice cream cone, making a sandwich. He looks through the cabinets and selects a tea, puts a kettle on to boil. He thinks of his nightmare, shudders. Remembers how she would softly talk to him late those nights, tell him it was alright, they're friends now, she's not afraid. She should be, he knows, but she trusts him, trusted him. They were learning so much more about the other, how to work on the field together, understanding.
And then he stopped it.
She pushed and he didn't push back, he just fell. Fell in on himself, couldn't take it. And he thinks, what if he was wrong? What if he can? But he can't, he knows that. But he regrets it. All of it. He regrets ever starting this, for playing with her like he was a cat and she was some toy, as if things could ever be that simple. She wasn't a toy, she wasn't a mouse, she wasn't a machine. She's a human, no matter what they tried to change her into. She still has feelings, they're just hidden better than the best of them. He regrets it.
He thinks back. But would he have stopped it?
And all of a sudden, Natasha's there next to him, pulling out an extra mug. Startled, he pulls the kettle to add more water.
She looks no different than she usually does, except for her eyes. They're not flirting, they're not secretive, they're not assessing, they're just…empty.
She looks at him.
She's not going to say anything, he can tell. She's waiting for him.
"How…uh, was your mission," Bruce says after a long moment.
She tilts her head at him, as though wondering if that's really what he wanted to say. He lowers his head. It wasn't. It really wasn't.
"Good," she says simply. It's just one word, but just her voice is enough to strike him. He keeps his head down as his heart skips a beat.
She walks to the fridge and pulls out some milk. Still avoiding looking at her, he pulls out a bowl and spoon for her as she goes through the cabinet for cereal.
The tinkling sound of Apple Jacks pouring into the bowl coincides with the kettle beginning to whistle. He pours the tea as she pours the milk.
She sits on top of the counter, ankles crossed, staring at him as she puts a spoonful in her mouth.
He looks at her feet, her bowl, the fridge, her hair, the tea he's holding…
"Bruce."
He looks at her eyes.
If Bruce were ever to see Natasha Romanoff cry, he imagines it would look something like this.
Calm. Collected. Quiet. Broken.
"It's ok, Bruce."
She must have seen the fear in his eyes, the pain he's in, the confusion he's feeling.
He puts the mug down.
"Natasha," he loves just saying her name, even when it hurts, "I'm sorry."
She smiles sadly at him.
.
They sit on the couch together, watching an old Western. She's already finished her tea, Bruce is still slowly sipping.
He's tired, and so is she.
He knows that despite the last few weeks, the fact that she's sitting here with him now, eyes slowly fluttering closed as cowboys ride past on screen is evidence enough that she still trusts him.
Still.
He hates himself for doing this, and he hates himself for what he's about to do, but he's been tortured this last three weeks, and by Thor's hammer if he has to go through it again, it might as well be worth it.
Wordlessly, he sets his mug on the coffee tables, he puts an arm around Natasha, and as her eyes blink open, he tugs her head to lay on his shoulder. She shifts slightly to press against his side, one hand resting lightly on his leg, before she closes her eyes again.
He rests his head on top of hers and drifts off with the scent of her hair in his dreams.