Bruce woke up to gentle but persistent rapping at his door. He looked at his watch, the screen the brightest point in his dark room.
My turn. Little early, though.
"I'm up," he called, fiddling with the timepiece so that it wouldn't alarm in a bit.
The rapping continued; usually, Nat only knocked if he was late to relieve her.
Something must be wrong.
"Coming!" he called, seizing his glasses from the nightstand and hurrying to get the door.
He pulled it open just as she was about to knock again, a little out of breath.
"What's going on? Is Thor back? Is it Steve?"
"No. And kind of," she studied him for a moment. "Everything's fine, Bruce."
"Oh."
Relief washed over him.
"So... Steve?"
"Can I come in?"
"Yeah; yeah, sure. It's a little messy... a lot, actually... just don't step on anything."
He hit the lights as he let her in, careful to take his own advice as he avoided stacks of paper and humming equipment. Thankfully, his apartment at the Avengers facility was considerably larger than his room in Wakanda; he proceeded to the kitchenette, where there was at least less of an organized disaster.
"Is this all work?" Nat queried, weaving gracefully through the maze.
"Um, the vast majority? There's a bit of personal stuff in there, but not much."
Up to my eyeballs indeed.
"Tea?"
"Coffee, if you have it."
He gestured at the Keurig on the countertop, and she proceeded to make her selection.
"Steve's taking your shift," Nat began, popping a pod into the machine. "I okayed it. We talked. He said he'd think about a support group."
Well, I'll be damned.
"That's a start," he said, and he could tell he sounded a bit awestruck despite his attempt to be casual; she glanced at him sideways and smiled.
"What? I'm impressed. He avoids me like the plague now."
"Well, you did tranq him."
He laughed.
"I did."
They enjoyed their respective hot beverages in a silence that seemed too full, and that seemed to stretch too long. He cleared his throat.
"So... um... this is nice, but if Steve's taking my shift... why am I awake?"
"Do you want to go back to bed?"
It was a simple question, but the way she regarded him over the rim of her mug made him feel like it was a complex equation.
"Um... kind of," he said, chuckling nervously.
"Alone?"
The kitchenette had never felt quite so small, before. She set her mug aside and took his gently from his hands, coming very close and resting her hands at his waist. His pulse quickened; the quiet beep of his heartrate monitor increasing accordingly.
"Bruce?"
It was a facade, carefully constructed, but there were cracks. Her eyes were bright and vulnerable; there was a real question there, and real fear.
"Nat, I..." he swallowed hard, scrambling for words, and settling on the first thing that popped into his mind.
"I adore you."
"You're a dork," she said, laughter bubbling past her lips as she stood on tiptoe to kiss him.
He couldn't help himself; he leaned into it, pulling her closer, one hand at the small of her back and the other behind her head. She traced along his jaw and down his neck with her fingertips, responding in kind. When her hands ghosted over his ribcage and dipped below the hem of his shirt, his heartrate monitor buzzed an alert; he was leaving the safe zone. He groaned, reluctantly pushing her back.
"We shouldn't," he said breathlessly, resting his forehead against hers.
"Shouldn't we?"
"No, I mean... we can't. I can't. I haven't; not since... before..." he trailed off, frustrated.
"So we'll take it slow," she murmured against his neck.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
"I'm not sure anyone in the world can take it that slow," he grumbled.
She laughed again, soft and low.
"I'm very talented," she purred, melting further into him.
He frowned, then; he knew she was teasing, but he despised any attempt to make light of her experiences in the Red Room.
"Relax, Bruce," she coaxed, pressing her lips to the corner of his frown. "You think too much."
He let her kiss him again, deeply, testing the limits of his self-control, before pulling back and dropping his head to her shoulder, vexed.
"I don't want to risk you."
She took his face in her hands and kissed his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his mouth, briefly.
"Trust me," she whispered.
He reached up and took one of her hands in his, turning it over to kiss the palm, waging a silent war with himself.
"Okay," he breathed, finally, like a prayer.
...
Later, much later, he lay propped up on one elbow, watching her sleep curled into his side, trailing his fingers absentmindedly up and and down her arm. He kissed the top of her head, tenderly. Her hair was soft and fragrant; the blonde had taken some getting used to. His alarm chimed again at his wrist, and he swiftly silenced it. He had to leave, and soon, to relieve Steve.
I've hit snooze... what, three times, I think?
This wasn't something he'd ever thought he could have; he had scarcely allowed himself to consider the possibility. It had been more of a dream, really.
And it only took two years and the end of the world to get here.
He was just about to extricate himself from their entanglement when his earpiece screeched on the nightstand; Nat's from somewhere on the floor. Outside, there was a flash of light and an enormous bang.
Nat sat bolt upright, eyes wide.
"Was that—?" She started to speak, but she was interrupted.
"Rogers! Rhodes! Romanoff! Banner! Rabbit! I have word!"
If he could understand Thor clearly with his earpiece three feet away, the Asgardian could probably be heard across the river in Connecticut.
"Too loud, Thor. Also it's four o'clock in the morning." Steve sounded tired.
"But Rogers, I have word of Stark!"
Nat met his eyes briefly, mouth dropping open for a moment before she shut it again with a pop. She was out of bed in an instant.
Jesus. Where the hell are my pants?