Natasha pulled the dish out of the heating unit. She had ridiculed Stark for how domestic the new Quinjet was, but she had to give it to him now; she had lived in relative comfort on a deserted island for nearly a week because of it. Its water purification system, onboard shower, even the heating unit had adapted well from just heating MRE's to functioning as a basic microwave. Back at HQ she had wondered as each change came in why he was modifying it in such a way. His interests had always laid more in weapons and cutting-edge tech. At the time she had figured it was because of Pepper's influence on him. Now she thought that maybe, just maybe, it was a bit of a guilty conscience on his part for what had happened to Bruce. Better late than never.

"What is this made of?" Bruce asked as Natasha arrived on the cabana's balcony carrying the hot dish.

"Taro, cassava, and coconut crème. We should figure out a way to get some fish soon—that would help you get weight back on quicker." Nat scooped some of the potatoes into a wooden bowl and handed it to Bruce. "I wonder if we could dig a pit oven," she wondered absentmindedly.

It had been six days since Bruce had come back. His appetite had thankfully grown, and he had been devouring everything Natasha made. Her supplies from the market were good, and they still had MREs in the jet that he was eating every day as well, but those were finite. He needed protein.

Bruce took a bite and chewed. He didn't mind eating tropical now that his stomach problems had passed. Even his feet were feeling better. But something was off—he didn't like Natasha's train of thought.

"Dig a pit oven? Go fishing? How long were you planning on staying?" He finally asked.

Natasha shrugged. "As long as needed."

"As long as needed for what?"

"I don't know."

"So you're not here for Fury? Or Stark?"

"Nope."

"Then why are you here, Natasha?" His tone was growing cold. Natasha bit her lip, trying to find the words to say. She had been digging for them in the back of her mind ever since arriving on the island, but they were elusive.

"Bruce. . ."

"Tell me that you have some scheme to undermine some mission or government or something and you were planning on using me—him—for it. Tell me it's strategy, team-building, something. Please tell me it's some manipulative Avengers-style plot." He was looking at her, pleading with his words. He wanted so badly for it to be simplified after she had mucked it all up, their delicate balance, veering to one side and then so sharply to the other.

"It was my fault," Nat murmured.

Bruce leaned back and looked out at the water, collecting himself. The silence hung over Natasha like a dark cloud.

"Yeah, kinda," he finally replied.

"And this is my fault too."

"Yeah."

"And I need to make it right."

"You would have made it right by leaving me alone."

"Probably," she whispered. This was not going how she had hoped. She had so much to say and she knew she had no right to say it. Bruce crossed his arms.

"I'm sorry," she began.

"Natasha—" he interrupted, not letting her finish.

"Can I just speak?" she retorted.

He sat there. She watched him begin counting under his breath. She silently cursed herself for raising her voice.

"I shouldn't have pushed you. I shouldn't have. I should have kept my promise, I should have run with you. But I can't, Bruce. I can't. I've got red in my ledger. I've got dues to pay. And I know, that day, in Sokovia. I know I fucked up. Making a promise I couldn't keep. It made. . ." she trailed off, searching for what she needed to say. "One of those debts I have? Now, one is to you. So here I am. Whatever's coming my way, I deserve it."

"No." he said quietly. He started wringing his hands. His tell. "You don't. You just don't, Natasha. That's what I'm saying! That's what I've been saying! You don't deserve this, any part of this. Nobody does. I'm sick of having this same conversation over and over and over again! I was stupid to even think—to even assume that we could just, I don't know, run off, escape it all. It was stupid, it would have never worked."

"Don't say that."

"It's what I always said! Until whatever all that was, back at Barton's. . ." he looked out at the water, breathing. "I shouldn't have changed my answer. I'm sick of having this conversation." he finally said, his tone measured.

"So don't."

"I think we've both seen by now that it's not that simple, Natasha."

"I messed up. I messed up bad, Bruce. I wanted to run, I did. But then we were in Sokovia and all I could see were the looks on Tony's and Steve's and Clint's faces when they saw we were gone. That I was gone. That I had done exactly what they always thought I would. Spy first, hero second. And that's not fair. Because running. . . that was supposed to be mine. My thing. Our thing." She looked at him wistfully, a moment of vulnerability. He couldn't look at her, couldn't meet her eyes. She powered on.

"I've never really had a thing before. And I wanted it, I wanted that so badly. But I didn't realize—earning forgiveness, making amends, doing good, that had become my thing too. I chose to do that, for myself. I always thought it was the Avengers and I was just some imposter, tagging along, but it's not. It's a choice I made. And it hurts sometimes. Like now. But I'm going to keep it because, well, I haven't been very good at keeping promises in the past. And suddenly, keeping one promise meant breaking another. I didn't realize that til Sokovia. And so I gave up . . . another promise. Prematurely made, maybe, but a promise nonetheless. And I hurt you. Selfish. I know. But the things I've done, I just, I have to make amends. I have to. "

She paused, looking at the ground, taking a moment to collect herself. Finally she looked up at him, smiling. "And funnily enough, here I am, almost a year later, and this feels like the biggest wrong I've ever done."

"So you're here for forgiveness." He looked at her. She couldn't meet his eyes.

"I wish I could say no," her chin wobbled and she bit her lip, trying to bite back the tears. She could hear now how selfish it sounded. How selfish it was.

Bruce shook his head slowly.

"Nat. . ."

And there it was. The exact same anguish she had seen in his eyes when he was fighting the Hulk.

"I'm sorry." She whispered, watching her hands clasped in her lap, unable to look up. She heard his breath get deeper, then he let out a low growl.

"You should leave," he muttered. She finally glanced at him and saw the tense expression on his face, his shoulders rising and falling too fast. Was that green expanding from the vein in his neck? She didn't know what to say—normally she'd try to coach him, calm him, remind him of his human side. She had a feeling she had overdone that this time, however.

"Get out of here," he stood abruptly. "GO!" he yelled, staggering back into the cabana.

He lurched through the room and out, jumping off the ramp rather than walking the full way. He landed on his hands and knees in the sand and stayed down. Natasha raced down to the beach, then watched his back expand, stretch the white shirt he had managed to put on for the first time that day, stretching it until it was straining at the seams. She stood behind him, paralyzed. He turned and looked at her. His face was green, but still his, his eyes wide with alarm.

"Leave! Please!" he begged.

"I'm staying. You got this." Natasha took a breath and collected herself. "Breathe. In and out."

"Natasha," he strangled her name, trying to stand up and run before tripping and falling back to the sand. "Go!"

"No," she declared, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. Her bracelets and suit were in the jet. If he went green it would be a question of how fast she could run. But she wouldn't.

"Please," he choked, crawling away from her. He hadn't ripped his shirt yet though. His coloring had come in and out, but he was still human, still Bruce.

"You're gonna be ok. Look, you're not going. Breathe. Just breathe." Natasha knelt next to him and put a hand on his back. He flinched again, shuddered. He pounded the sand once with his fist before rolling over onto his back and lying there, panting. Nat knelt in the sand next to him and watched him breathe, four counts in, holding for seven, out for eight. It was his favorite pattern.

After a minute he sat up and put his head in his hands, rocking slightly.

"Bruce, you're ok. You won." Natasha tried not to let on how thrilled she was. After nine months of staying green, he had managed to keep the training they had worked on together. Hell, he had improved. She couldn't remember the last time he had stopped a transformation that far along.

He didn't say anything. Natasha heard his breathing get deeper, she heard the whoosh each time as he breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth. She was surprised when he let out a gasp—was he crying?

"I could have killed you," he rasped. He didn't look up.

"I would have deserved it."

His shoulders kept heaving, but he didn't make another sound. The seconds stretched into minutes. Natasha didn't move, didn't leave. Eventually he looked up at her, his face raw. She looked back.

"Why would you do that to me?" his voice was small. "You would let me kill you."

"I deserve it."

"And what about me? Do I—do I deserve that? Having to live with that? Coming out of it and seeing. . . seeing. . . oh Jesus" he hunched back down again. Nat looked away, out to the water. Of course, he was right.

"I really fucked this up," she whispered. "Wow." She laughed quietly.

"I do not see the humor here," he whispered. That just made her smile more.

"I disobeyed orders, ya know. Maybe one of the first times in my life. I stole this jet, I stole my suit, I didn't register a flight plan, and I came halfway around the world to see you. To see what I've done to you." She laughed again, hollow. She took a minute. Was there any good way to explain this? She watched his back rise and fall, slowing.

"I was so scared of you in India. So scared. My heart was jumping out of my chest."

"I could tell from the armada you had outside."

"On the helicarrier too."

"Rightfully so."

"No." She turned and looked at him, her gaze intense. "You wouldn't have even been there if it weren't for me. If I hadn't brought you in." He finally looked at her, not following her logic.

"You were following orders."

"Exactly. Like I have my entire life." She picked up a stone and rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger. It was polished from years of waves beating against it, sand grating it down, shining it.

"I fail to see where this is going."

"I don't want forgiveness, Bruce. For Sokovia. I'm not sorry at all. If I hadn't pushed you that day, thousands would have died. I say that with confidence—I know we'll never know, but I believe."

"So then, why did you say. . . up there?"

"I sat in my office at HQ for nine months and hunted through the internet, through the universe as it exists online, to find you. Everybody knew, but nobody except Steve was willing to take one for the team and confront me about it, tell me to get my head out of my ass and stop dreaming. I had hoped—I don't know. In Sokovia. You'd land. We'd go. . . like we said. I don't know. It sounds stupid now." She threw the stone into the ocean.

"You thought we'd still do it? Still go? Just take off? After that?"

"A girl can dream, right?" She smiled and bit her lip again, then found another stone in the sand and began rubbing it. Bruce took a moment, trying to process.

"I thought that Ultron might be enough. I knew I couldn't abandon the team, not there. But after. . . I wanted to do better—do more. I don't know. I wanted to draw a clearer line. Between what I was and what I could maybe be, with time."

"With me."

"Yeah." She turned and smiled at him. She was choking up, embarrassed. Had he ever seen Natasha Romanoff embarrassed before?

"I thought you'd agree," she murmured. "About Sokovia being necessary."

"Well," Bruce scratched the back of his neck, his reluctance obvious. "I mean, maybe it was. Evil robot AI slamming a city into the planet to cause global extinction seems fair cause for a code green, I guess."

"And I know that doesn't excuse my actions, or—the trust. I know that. I know. And I know—for the other guy—I know what I am to him. I'm the one that comes and shoves him away. Brings you back. I know he must hate me. All he sees is rage and destruction—this is the first peace he's probably ever known." She chuckled and took a moment, quelling the tears that seemed to be fighting for a chance to reappear.

"But I'm still here. After everything I did, all of this," she gestured vaguely around them. "I know. And that's why I'd deserve it. If you went green. If you went green and I was gone and you came back and didn't mourn. I'd get it. I'd be proud. Bruce Banner finally getting retribution for the shit he's been put through. I did this to you—to him—and I deserve whatever happens next because of it."

"And what about me? What do I deserve?"