When Natasha bolted up in bed a second time, it was not due to the imagined scent of Bruce's cologne in her nose, but rather to an urgent pressure building up in her stomach and forcing its way up her throat.

Truth be told, Natasha wasn't really sure what happened next; it could only be characterized by a flurry of confused and blurry images and a mass of tangled limbs. In her panic to get to the bathroom as quickly as her body would let her, Natasha flung herself ungracefully out of the bed and landed directly on top of a warm, huddled mass resting on the floor next to her. To her surprise, the pile not only stirred, but let out a choked, painful groan, drawing a startled scream from the redhead. Suddenly, a solid surface rose from the floor and smacked her directly in the center of her forehead, causing her to plummet back to the ground so that she was lying on her back with her slender legs half-straddling whatever had decided to make itself comfortable next to her bed. Grimacing, she squeezed her eyes shut; she was almost positive she had seen a few cartoonish stars circle her head before it hit the ground.

"Natasha…?" A slurred voice sounded from the offending lump. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry! Are you all right?"

Oh, right, Bruce. I keep forgetting. Sighing, the woman raised her hand to her forehead; to her disgust, a tender lump was starting to swell on her normally flawless skin.

"Natasha? Natasha, can you hear me? Are you okay?"

"Calm down, Banner, I've taken hits worse than this in my day." With a groan, she propped herself up so that she was sitting against the wall. "Jesus Christ, what the hell? Is your skull made out of lead? Is that why you always walk like a hunchback—because your goddamn head is too heavy to—"

A retch interrupted her speech, and she slapped her hand over her mouth: oh, yeah. Bathroom.

Nearly kicking the man in the face, Natasha sprung from her position on the floor and made it to the toilet just in time to empty the entire contents of her stomach into the pristine white bowl. Drawing in a shaky breath, she crossed her arms on the seat and rested her forehead on them; God, she hated this.

She heard a timid knock echo on the wall, and Bruce cleared his throat. "Natasha? You all right in there?"

"Peachy," Natasha growled before spitting a glob of sour saliva into the water.

Peeking around the frame of the door, Bruce gave a grimace at the image of Natasha huddled and shivering over the toilet. He began to move toward her when she stirred and groaned.

"You switched sides," her muffled voice whined from its position between her arms.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The bed, Banner. You switched sides of the bed. You were on the left when we went to sleep. What the hell were you doing up?"

The man felt an uneasy anxiety swell in his stomach, but he gulped and tried to look unfazed. "Bad dreams," he said. Hopefully she wouldn't ask questions. "You need anything?"

"Yeah—a bloody Mary."

Bruce noticed that a stray lock of red hair had slipped from its place and become plastered onto her forehead, and he got the sudden urge to reach forward and brush it away. However, as he had a feeling that she might permanently crush his wrist if he touched her, he opted for a different, less painful approach to helping calm her down.

"I'll go get your toothbrush," he said quickly, and slid out the door before she could protest.

When he returned, Natasha was no longer gripping the toilet for dear life, but now crouched near the tub with her legs pulled to her chest and her face buried in her knees. It looked so pathetic that it made Bruce wonder if he should just sneak away and give her a little privacy. Before he could tip-toe out, however, Natasha's head snapped up and she stared wearily at the object in his hand.

"You planning on giving that to me, or are you just gonna stand there and let it air out?"

"Someone's not a morning person," Bruce grumbled, reaching forward to give Natasha what she wanted and get the hell out of there. Their fingers brushed momentarily, and Bruce swore he saw Natasha blush before whipping her hand back and hoisting herself up onto the edge of the tub.

"You got toothpaste?" Her voice was a little gentler now, but he was sure it would take her a while to cool down completely.

"Yeah…sure." Bruce fumbled around in his medicine cabinet and produced a half-used red and white tube. "Well, I'll get out of your way now."

"No, don't go!" Bruce turned around and raised an eyebrow at Natasha, who cleared her throat and blushed even harder. "I mean, you don't get off that easy, Banner. You owe me some company." She pointed to the growing bruise on her forehead.

He chuckled. "Whatever you say." With a groan, he eased into a sitting position on the floor while Natasha squeezed a generous strip of white paste onto her toothbrush.

The sound of bristles scraping teeth filled the room as Natasha scrubbed fervently.

"Sho wha'wash you' dream abou'?"

Bruce blinked. "What?"

Natasha spat into the sink and glared at him. "What was your dream about?" She said angrily, enunciating each syllable with unnecessary exaggeration. Bruce resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

"Oh you know, the usual bad dream stuff, I guess. Zombies, clowns, inlaws…" Bruce began to feel the nauseating anxiety return to the pit of his stomach.

Natasha took a mouth-full of water before gargling it in the back of her throat and swallowing it. "Bullshit. I know a lie when I hear one. Come on, Banner, entertain me—what could have been so intense that it scared the great Hulk into retreat?"

"So my pain is amusing to you, is that it?" With a smirk, Natasha placed her toothbrush on the edge of the sink and walked to the tub. Noiselessly, she slid down to the ground so that she sat cross-legged a few inches from Bruce. "Not giving up, huh?"

"Nope. Spill."

Bruce sighed and ran a hand through his sleep-disheveled hair. "I dreamt that one of my…patients...was sick and I couldn't save her in time." During his years of living on the lam, he had learned the delicate art of keeping the details just vague enough so that the opposite party wouldn't get suspicious or ask questions. He saw no reason to tell Natasha that the patient was the redhead herself.

"What of?"

"Um, blood loss," he said quickly. Close enough.

"Hm. That's tough." Natasha was casually glancing over her nails in an attempt to feign disinterest; however, Bruce could sense a hint of concern buried beneath her stoic voice. "Do you have these types of dreams often?"

"Er, often enough." Not that Natasha had ever been a part of them. Bruce sensed that she would not let the conversation end there, so he cleared his throat and continued. "While I was in India, I dealt with extremely ill people—people who would have been considered way beyond the point of recovery. I saved a few, but a lot of them passed away—a lot more than I would have liked." There was silence between them. "A good deal were children."

Natasha's right hand slowly crept up to rest on the tiny bulge at the base of her stomach, and Bruce wondered if she even realized she was doing it.

"I don't blame myself; I know that I did my best with the resources I had available, and that without me even more people would've died. But still, after you've poured your soul into trying to cure the fiftieth patient of the week only to have it all come to naught, it gets hard to console yourself, you know?"

Natasha's hand fell from her stomach so that it rested limply on the tile floor, her fingers splayed apart loosely on the tiles. "Yeah, I get it," she said absently, her eyes strangely fixated on a dark stain on her sleep shorts. "I mean, I killed people for a living. I still do sometimes. And if I'm going to be completely honest, there's still a part of me that truly does believe that there are people whose lives need to end in order to save those of thousands of others. I used to say to Clint that sometimes, killing wasn't murder…but not killing could be." She gave a light short and shook her head. "He always said it scared him when I talked like that, so I stopped. But I still think it's true. Some of the time, at least. Since SHIELD, I haven't my victims haven't been…well, let's just say that they wouldn't have made it onto TIME's Most Influential People list. But, still, I do have to cope with the fact that I am a murderer, no matter how you justify or word it. And sometimes I ask myself, what if…what if some of my targets could have been reasoned with? Granted, most of them were bloodthirsty murderers who would have shot a kid on the way home from church if it meant his advancement in the business, but still…I was a part of that world at one point; what made Clint decide that I was 'worth saving?' What made me any different from them?"

Bruce turned to look at her: Natasha was biting her bottom lip so hard that it almost blended in with the porcelain skin of her face, and her right hand was now clenched into a fist. "Can I ask you something, Natasha?" He asked softly. "Would you have ever shot a kid?"

"No, of course not. I don't kill children. Or the elderly. I never have." Her response was steady and immediate, and her eyes adopted an expression of such strong resolution that it made Bruce's own hand shoot out to rest lightly on top of hers.

"And you don't think Clint could see that as soon as he started observing you? You're different, Natasha, special—you're not like any of the other bad guys you've dealt with. You're without a doubt one of the most moral, strong, justice-driven women I've ever met—it just…took a little while for it to come to light."

For a second, Bruce wasn't even sure if Natasha was listening; her eyes were focused on his large hand covering her petite one, a faraway, wistful smile gracing her features. Slowly, as if by their own will, her fingers unfurled and intertwined themselves with his, making Bruce's breath hitch in his throat. Her palm was rough, rougher than most women's, but for some reason, it seemed right—fitting, even. Her thumbnail, which was un-manicured but well-kept, pressed lightly into his flesh, sending small shivers up his spine. His heart increased speed when Natasha leaned to rest her head on his shoulder, her loose hairs brushing the side of his neck. He could catch the light scent of a simple floral shampoo, and he gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead; it was all he could do to keep himself from turning and burying his face in her hair.

"We should get breakfast!" Bruce blurted suddenly. Actually, he didn't blurt it so much as scream it so loudly that it caused Natasha's whole body to give a spastic jump, her head jerking up and whacking him in the chin.

"OW, that hurt a lot more than it should have!" Bruce said as he rubbed his throbbing chin. Natasha, who appeared to be busy leaving some kind of out-of-body trance, shook her head and stared at him in surprise.

"Well, now we're even. Geez, you startled me. Never knew Tony the Tiger tickled your fancy so much."

Bruce simply blushed and continued to stroke his chin.

"So are we going?"

"Where?"

"Breakfast…?"

"Oh…yeah. You go, I'll catch up."

"But you were the one who wanted to—"

"Yeah. You know, I'm actually not very hungry. Go on, I'll see you down there."

"Men," Natasha muttered with an exasperated sigh as she pushed herself up from the floor and padded silently to the bathroom's exit. She paused for a moment, and then, with her back still turned, she blurted, "Oh, and Bruce? I'm sorry I insulted your posture. I think it's kind of…cute how you hunch when you walk."

After the door whooshed shut, Bruce absentmindedly touched his hand, which had just moments ago been clutching Natasha's, to his shoulder. The warmth from the woman's head was now long gone, but if he closed his eyes he could kind of feel the ghost of its light pressure resting in the crook of his neck.

That hadn't lasted nearly as long as it should have.

00000

Dear God, I am never drinking again.

Clint moaned and clutched his aching head; he hadn't even opened his eyes and already he was feeling the overwhelming onslaught of one hell of a hangover. After Banner had left, he decided to go ahead and finish the bottle—Tony was going to notice either way—and soon after lost any semblance of coherence. He didn't even remember getting to his room; in fact, there was about a fifty percent chance he was laying on the ground of one of Stark's seven garages right now.

Keeping his eyes closed, he held his breath and tried to gauge the time judging by the sounds of his surroundings: the tower itself was quiet, but the hums and honks of cars crawling through the streets below told him that it was about ten in the morning, maybe a little earlier. Curling into a fetal position in an attempt to keep last night's vodka bath inside his stomach, Clint cracked his eyes open. After blinking a few times to clear his vision of any unwanted dizziness, he found himself face to face with the culprit of his current condition: an empty bottle of vodka, resting on its side against the metal leg of one of Stark's designer bar stools. With a pang of shame, Clint realized that he had barely even made it three feet from the counter until he collapsed from either tiredness or drunkenness—in his case, probably both. Oh, well. It was better than the garage, he supposed.

Suddenly, a set of beeping sounds was heard from the entryway, and Clint lifted his head to see Natasha sauntering in with a steaming coffee mug and a plate of something that looked like pancakes. However, in their current state, it was kind of hard to tell—they appeared to be covered in a thick layer of light pink goo and a generous heap of sprinkles. Before she could spot him lying face first on the ground (he wasn't sure he was ready for the embarrassment and long explanation it would require,) he belly-crawled across the room to the couch, where he hauled himself up to the cushions in a half-sitting, half-lying position.

"Hey, Clint," she said casually, giving him a sly smile before sitting down next to him. Nodding at her, Clint cautiously pressed his left leg against her right one and was happily relieved when she not only didn't jerk away as she had that night in the jet with him, but reached over and gave his hand a small squeeze before starting in on her breakfast. He would have loved to knock the plate out of her hands and start right in on a repeat of last night's rooftop affair, but as Natasha was not known to react kindly to having her meals interrupted, he settled for relishing the feeling of her smooth skin against his.

He had never told her this before, but in his opinion, Natasha was at her most beautiful in the morning, right after waking up. Her hair was messy but not tangled, as if someone had ruffled it up and she had forgotten to smooth it back down. Her face's natural beauty never failed to astound him; sometimes, there was a smudge of mascara underneath her eye that she hadn't quite washed off the night before, and for some reason, Clint found it undeniably sexy. Her torso was usually covered by a simple, not-quite-ragged sweater, but her legs were bare, a pair of sleep shorts hugging the generous curves of her hips. Clint loved seeing Natasha's legs; they were kind of short, not exactly stick-thin, but there was something elegant about the light definition of muscles that graced her calves and thighs. Natasha rarely wore shorts, though, so mornings were really his only time to soak it all in.

Natasha cleared her throat, and Clint realized that he was very obviously staring, if not ogling her.

Suddenly, a large glop of gooey pastry fell off of Natasha's fork and onto Clint's knee; without any hesitation, she reached over, picked it lazily from his skin, and sucked her finger clean, her mouth making a loud suction-y noise.

Wow. Way to ruin the effect, Nat.

"You're disgusting. If only our enemies could see the sultry Black Widow now."

Natasha just grunted and swatted at him playfully.

"What the hell are you eating, anyway?"

She turned and gave him a look that seemed to pretty clearly communicate that she thought he was the crazy one for asking. "Pancakes. What does it look like?"

"It looks like Barney threw up onto your plate."

"Ha-ha. I was in the mood for frosting. Deal with it."

"So the cravings have set in, huh? Next thing I know you'll be waking me up at midnight to run out and make you a pickle-and-ice cream sundae."

Normally, Natasha would have replied with some witty piece of banter to keep the conversation in play, but as her mouth was currently filled beyond its normal limits, she merely looked at him and grunted in disgust.

Narrowing his eyes, Clint reached forward and brushed a chunk of red bangs away from his partner's forehead, revealing the now fully-swollen bruise that Bruce's skull had dealt her this morning. Natasha quickly snapped her head from his touch and pressed her hair back into place.

"It's nothing. Bumped into the door on the way back to my room last night," she said hurriedly. Clint, obviously not buying the story, simply continued to stare wearily at her. Natasha avoided eye contact, instead choosing to focus on what little remained of her breakfast. In an attempt to act casually, she reached for her mug to take a draw from it; however, her hands were shaking so badly that a splash of the steaming liquid sloshed from her cup and onto her sweater.

"Ow! Goddammit, that's gonna leave a huge stain!" Slamming her mug back onto the table, she pulled off her sweater—not minding the fact that she was wearing nothing but a bra underneath—and began to rub frantically at the dark circle seeping into the fabric. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, she threw the piece of clothing onto the floor and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Whatever. Stark's got a million people dying to dry clean his thousand-dollar tuxes; I'll just put it onto his tab. He owes me, right? Clint?"

Natasha realized that her partner had become completely silent, and she suddenly became all too aware of the presence of his probing eyes on her person. Subconsciously, she pulled her arms tighter around herself. What the hell was his problem? He had already ogled her once this morning—wasn't that enough? Jesus Christ, you allow a man access to your personal space one night and they spend the next two weeks dilly-dallying in it.

"Clint, would you mind using your ears and listening to me for once in your sorry—"

To her surprise, though, he wasn't staring at her chest or her hips or whatever else it was that seemed to put men in a magical state of impenetrable enchantment; instead, his eyes were fixated on a single area of her lower abdomen—on the small but noticeable bump that acted as the first physical indication that there was something growing inside her.

"Natasha…" he breathed. "This is amazing! Why didn't you tell me?" Slowly, he reached his hand forward and placed it ever so gently on top of the curve; his touch was so light that Natasha could barely feel it. "I can't believe I didn't notice last night! How long have you had this?"

Natasha gulped; suddenly, she didn't feel very hungry for the rest of her pancakes. In fact, she felt downright queasy. There was something about Clint's tone of voice that she couldn't put her finger on, but whatever it was, it made her feel uncomfortable and even a little…dismayed? Distressed? She didn't know; she couldn't really think too clearly with her partner's hand pressing against the hard lump that was now a part of her body.

"I…I don't know. Not long. Listen, I'm glad we're talking again. I've got to go, though. I'll see you later."

Simultaneously striding towards the door and yanking her sweater over her head, Natasha pulled away from the warmth of Clint's body to the steel gray halls that snaked through the tower. She gave a sigh of relief as she heard the doors click shut behind her. She hadn't even looked back at Clint; she had a feeling that his expression would just about break her heart.

"Natasha! Wait!"

Natasha froze in place and looked over her shoulder just in time to practically body-slam into a frantic, power-walking Pepper. Natasha suddenly remembered that she and Tony were leaving for a two week-long business trip to Boston in order to lead a set of conferences on Stark Industries' newly developing energy awareness campaign; it was no wonder she looked more than frazzled right now.

Pepper came to a halt in front of the other red-headed woman, panting slightly and holding a freckled hand to her chest. It almost made Natasha want to smile—she had lived with top-notch secret agents, assassins, and super humans for so many years that she forgot what it was like to see someone get winded by a brisk walk down the hall.

"Natasha, please, I'm sorry—I just—I've been looking for you everywhere and—is this a good time?"

Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm not going anywhere. Is this a good time for you?"

"Yes, I've been putting this off for a while, and…" Pepper straightened up and reached into a black leather briefcase she had slung over her shoulder. Letting out a shuddering breath, she pulled out a manila envelope containing what appeared to be a very thick stack of papers. "Listen, Natal—Natasha—I just wanted to say that I'm sorry about everything that's happened these past few weeks."

"I'm pretty sure it wasn't your fault," Natasha said, narrowing her eyes in confusion. "As far as I know, the real culprit is in some high-security prison in Tijuana right now."

Pepper blushed. "No, not that. I'm talking about…" She stepped closer and lowered her voice. "I'm talking about the scan that Tony—Tony and I—ordered on you. It was an invasion of privacy, and we had no right."

Natasha's breath caught in her throat. "Yeah, well…it probably wasn't you who ordered it, right?"

"No, but I didn't exactly stop him, either. Really, Natasha, I feel horrible about this whole thing. Trust me, I know what it's like to have people talking about you and…whatever else you've been doing…behind your back. I wouldn't wish it on any other woman. Not that I've ever really interacted with any other woman besides the barista at Starbucks who makes my latte. So, please, accept my apology. I really am ashamed. Really."

Natasha cracked a smile; Pepper was right: stepping into Stark Towers was kind of like a jumping into a testosterone tank. Then again, she was so used to living with men that she never really ever felt the need to talk to those of the fairer sex. "Well, I would've appreciated more of a heads-up before you sent your robot-servant to do his probing, but you probably made it easier on me in the end—I mean, I'm not really the type to bake a 'we're expecting' cake and hold a tea party or anything."

Pepper gave her a warm grin and opened her mouth to say something else, but an obnoxious beeping from inside her purse stopped her in her tracks.

"Shit, that would be the cab. Anyway, before I leave, I wanted to give this to you. I don't know what your, um, plans are for after the baby is born, but in case you were thinking about the adoption route…" Pepper shoved the heavy folder into Natasha's hands. "JARVIS and I have spent the last few weeks compiling a list of what we believe to be some very compatible potential parents. These people are the best of the best. I think. At least we've weeded out all of the crazies. I can only imagine how many reservations someone with your history must have with this sort of thing, so if you need anything—and I mean anything at all—just tell me. I can get anyone's entire life record and their father's in your hands with the push of a button. I just want you to know that you don't have to go through this alone." Pepper paused, and then, in an awkward flurry of jerky movements, she leaned forward, wrapped Natasha in a strange, fleeting hug, and stepped back with a nervous smile. "Well, I really need to go, or Tony's gonna think the whole thing is off and go back to bed. Good luck, Natasha—call me if you need anything. JARVIS has my number."

Natasha watched as Pepper scurried back down the hallway and into the elevator. "Also, I'd schedule an ultrasound if I were you. If I'm calculating right, you're about eight weeks along—I'm pretty sure that's when you're supposed to go in and, you know—check if everything is cooking right. Call me if you need any references—I'll see you in a couple of weeks!" The petite woman turned around and waved frantically, and Natasha raised her own hand in response, not putting it back down until long after the doors had closed. Sniffing at the air, she pulled the front of her sweater to her nose and grimaced; that woman's perfume was so strong that Natasha may as well have sprayed it onto her own person that morning. Still, though, that conversation had been…nice. However, it did manage to serve as another one of those all-too-constant reminders that she really needed to get on this whole baby business—the thing was growing at the rate of some science fiction parasite, it seemed. Weighing the stack of files in her hands, she peeled back the beige folder cover; the grinning face of a skinny middle-aged woman stared back at her, while the bottom half of the page was filled with enough tiny dark print to make Natasha feel even sicker than she already was. Sighing, she closed the envelope and squeezed her eyes shut.

She had a long few weeks ahead of her.

00000

Aaand we're back! Sorry about the wait on that one, everybody. It's been a busy month (or two?) and I haven't really been in the writing mood. I hope this chapter wasn't too boring for you—I'm going to try to move it along a little quicker from here on out. If you're looking for action, though, this probably isn't the fic to read—I'm trying to focus more on Natasha's emotional struggles and less on the "Black Widow and her unborn baby have been kidnapped and now it's up to the Avengers to rescue them" ideas. Not that those can't be exciting. Anyway, I've been talking for too long. Please tell me what you think! I love when you review.

(In addition, I'd like to give credit to whatever genius writes/updates the Black Widow tumblr ( .) It's given me a lot of helpful information on Natasha, and there are a lot of well-written articles about her and her identity as a woman superhero and all that fun stuff I love to write about!)