The jungle was muggy and bug-filled and miserable. Even following the path cleared for her by the Hulk, Nat kept getting snagged on branches, tripped by roots, bitten by insects who whined in her ears and caught in her hair. As she went deeper and deeper it got darker and darker and the smell of rotting vegetation grew.
When she stopped for water it tasted brackish, even after purifying. She found another tree like the one she slept in her first night on the island and decided to spend the night there again. She couldn't hear the Hulk anywhere nearby, and as soon as the sun set, the jungle was in near-total darkness.
She wondered how he slept, the Hulk. Did he need to as often as humans did? Did he dream?
She wondered where Bruce was, inside him. If he could see the world at all, or if it was just darkness. She wondered if his body subconsciously remembered the things it did when it was huge and green and unrestricted. She wondered if it was the other way around.
In the morning she set-off again, determined to find him before the mosquitos fully drained her body of blood. Navigating was hard in the jungle, but from what she could tell he had cut inwards and then taken a meandering path south. The island truly wasn't that big—a few kilometers diameter at most. The going was just wretchedly slow because of the density. Even the Hulk, she could see, had struggled. There were points where large fallen trees crossed the path he had taken—some of them were smashed and collapsed, but one of harder wood was just bent, splintered in a few places but still whole. A copse of smaller trees off to the left had been completely uprooted, thrown around and smashed into pulp. He must have been pretty pissed at the impassable obstacle.
A full day of walking had Nat discouraged. The island seemed so small from above, but the jungle was vast and thick around her. She wasn't sure, but she felt like she had slowly cut closer and closer to the edge of the jungle. It had likely been a very roundabout way of getting there, but the foliage was thinning and she was no longer walking in ankle-deep water most of the time.
She found him just as she was starting to worry about having to spend a second night in a tree.
The sun was slanting in the sky, not setting yet, but shining in her eyes as she trudged through the bushes. She stopped in her tracks when she saw him—he wasn't more than fifteen feet away, reclining against a tree, peeling bark off a huge branch.
He looked up and saw her a moment after she first saw him. He stopped peeling the branch, but didn't get up. She took that as a good sign, even as her heart thumped in her chest.
"Hey big guy," she began.
He resumed peeling, looking apprehensively between her and the branch.
"That's a nice branch ya got there," she said.
"Hmph," he grunted.
"Do the bugs bother you too? Or is your skin too thick for them?"
He ignored her. So, he wasn't mad, but he wasn't exactly thrilled to see her either. Even though her legs felt like they were made of concrete, Nat took a step closer. He eyed her warily but didn't move. She took that as a sign to approach, sitting on a massive exposed root about ten feet away from him. She tried to make herself seem comfortable, even though she was ready to flee at the slightest movement from him.
"Would you mind if I asked you a question?" Nat asked.
"Hmph," he replied.
"Do you like it here?"
He paused his peeling of the branch and looked at her, serious.
"Mmm," he finally grunted.
"It was probably really nice getting some time to just be at peace, right?"
He resumed his peeling.
"I'm sorry that I came and ended that."
He kept working at the branch.
"Do you see what happens when he's out instead?"
He froze. Nat wondered if mentioning Bruce had been a mistake.
"Mmm," he finally grunted. "Some."
She masked her surprise. She had heard him speak before, of course. After taking Loki down in New York he was surprisingly coherent and in control. She didn't know why it was surprising now.
"Does it make you mad when we want Banner to come back?"
He froze again, his nostrils flaring.
"Puny. Hurt." He grumbled.
"He hurts you or you hurt him?"
"Weak."
"Compared to you, yeah."
He sneered at her, then pointed at his chest. "Weak."
"Oh. You mean feelings."
"Mmph."
"Don't you have any feelings?"
"Mad."
"Other than mad. You're not mad right now, are you?"
He looked at her then. It was interesting, watching him evaluate her. Without the rage in his features, just mild contempt, it was easy to see his similarities to Bruce—the same jawline, the same deep-set eyes, high cheekbones hidden away by muscle.
"Banner puny. Weak. Sad."
"But not you."
"Hulk. . .angry."
"You don't have to be angry. If you weren't angry, it might make it easier for him to let you out more, ya know?"
He growled then. She had taken it too far, suggesting Bruce allowed him anything. She knew it the second the words left her mouth.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that. You're the boss." Her heart thumped.
"Hulk boss."
"Yeah."
He looked at her one more time before returning his attention to the branch in front of him. It was almost completely smooth, every last shred of bark picked off. Natasha spied another branch of the same type nearby—big shreds of bark hanging off of it. She rose slowly and walked over to it, picking it up and bringing it back to the Hulk. He eyed her as she approached and held it out—a literal sort of olive branch. He took it from her, but she didn't move, didn't return to her seat. Instead, she held her hand out.
He eyed the hand warily—he knew what it meant. He didn't seem mad though. He lifted his hand and set it on hers without much fuss. She felt the weight of it—it was so heavy, she doubted she could hold it without his help. His skin didn't feel all that different from a human. She imagined that it felt like the cross between an elephant and a human—she'd never touched an elephant, but the comparison seemed apt.
Before she had even lifted her other hand, he began shrinking. He stood and staggered away from her, making it only a few feet before collapsing to the ground. Nat exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself. Thankfully his pants hadn't completely ripped this time, so he had some dignity.
She approached him slowly. He was curled up in the fetal position, lying still on the ground.
"Bruce?"
She got closer and knelt next to him. "Bruce?" she asked again.
She was almost surprised when he lashed out—he was still painfully slow compared to her. The Hulk may have been strong, but one thing Bruce Banner did not have was combat training. She was able to stop his swinging elbow, then to brush aside his fist as he swung at her.
"Bruce, what the hell?" she asked, standing and backing away. He staggered to his feet slowly and looked at her. The look was back in his eyes again—that haunted, anguished, emptiness.
"I hate this. I hate everything about this. I hate that you can do this to me!" he shouted. He rushed at her again. This time Natasha was ready—she grabbed his wrists as he swung at her, holding them in the air between them. They locked eyes for a moment. Natasha didn't think she'd ever seen Bruce get fully angry before. Anger had always been the Hulks domain. Bruce pushed, shoving her into the tree behind them. She landed with a thud, pinned.
Before she knew what was happening, his lips were on hers.
It was ferocious, almost animalistic the way he attacked her, pressing his body against hers, parting her teeth with his tongue and taking control with a commanding presence she never knew he had in him. She didn't stop him, didn't resist, just let herself be pinned.
When he reached for the zipper on her suit, she saw her window and pushed him backwards, down to the ground. She straddled him and kissed him again. That didn't work for him though—he needed control. This moment was his. He rolled her over, grasped her wrists and brought them above her head, held them there, out of the way.
Natasha had never felt so powerless.
When his hand found her zipper once more and began yanking it down, she had had enough. Gently, she slid her wrists out from his grasp and pushed him off.
The air went out of him like a balloon. He rolled over to lay on the ground next to her. They were both panting. The air buzzed around them, still electrified.
Nat swept tendrils of her hair out of her face, taking care where it had stuck to the sweat at her temples. Bruce ran his fingers through his own, a mess of curls, bark, dirt and leaves.
"What happened to running with it?" he finally asked, his voice wry.
"That wasn't running," Natasha muttered. "That was . . . a stampede."
She didn't look, but she swore she could feel him smiling next to her.
They lay there for a few minutes, catching their breath, collecting themselves. They were no more than six inches apart, but they didn't turn to look at each other.
Finally, Natasha did. She rolled to her side, leaning her head on her hand.
"What the fuck was that?" she asked. Bruce kept looking straight up above them, into the canopy.
"I don't know."
"I don't buy that."
"I hate that I still want you." He still didn't look at her.
"I know the feeling," she snorted, laying back down again. They laid in silence for a moment before he spoke again.
"I think my life is ruined, and then I find a way to ruin it all over again."
Nat sat up, looking at the sun setting beyond the trees, out over the water. It lit the sky in splashes of orange, coral, and magenta.
"Is it ruined, or just different than you planned? They don't have to be the same thing, you know."
He blew out a breath slowly.
"Maybe there's a silver lining you're missing," Nat offered.
She tapped his hand and he flinched, then sat up. He rubbed leaves off the back of his head and took in the stunning view before them.
"Maybe," he relented.
She stood and offered him a hand up. He took it.
They walked out to the beach together and turned north. Their sunset walk was silent, contemplative. Neither of them wanted to burst the moment, the memory of their bodies so close. Just being near each other, just walking was enough. The ugliness could wait.
It took them two hours to get back, compared to the day and a half journey through the jungle they had taken to get there. Nat could have gone faster by herself, but Bruce was slower than her, exhausted by the transformation and his still-healing feet. By the time they reached the cabana, night had fallen. The stars were insane—without any light pollution they sparkled brilliantly, filling the sky.
Bruce showered in the jet and pulled on one of his few remaining pairs of pants. He didn't bother with a shirt. Natasha was sitting on the beach staring at the ocean when he emerged. She stood as if to greet him, but they just looked at each other. She had changed while he was in the shower—she was in a t-shirt and a pair of shorts. He realized he had never seen her in shorts before. A few dresses, yes, but they always extended down to her knees, even if they were skin-tight and revealing in the chest. Now he saw why.
She had an impressive scar on her left thigh—a huge mottled thing that ran from just above her knee up and out to her hip, the top hidden by the hem of her shorts. Her right leg had its fair share of puckered scars too—smaller, patterned things. Shrapnel?
She observed him while he evaluated her. He was starting to fill out again—his chest didn't look as sunken, his collarbones not quite as pronounced. He had scars now too—the sores were healing well.
They stood there for a moment, but neither of them spoke. The peace was too nice, too different from what they'd had in the past week. Eventually Bruce gave a small smile, then turned and paced up the ramp to the cabana. Natasha took her turn to shower.
When she finished, she walked up to the cabana herself. She had slept on the porch every night so far—he had never invited her in, and she had never asked. Her sleeping roll was outside, ready and waiting for her. She peeked inside and saw him lying on the palm frond bed the Hulk had made. He wasn't in the center though, like he usually was. He was off to the side, lying on his back. She couldn't tell if he was sleeping or not with the dim light inside.
She longed to go to him. To slide in beside him and finish what they had started. A tightness in her chest stopped her though. It wouldn't be right—he probably wouldn't even let her in the bed. Sleeping with him now would just be. . . manipulative. Cruel. He wanted her, but he also hated her. She didn't blame him.
She picked up her sleeping roll and took it out to the beach. She'd sleep under the stars and try to believe that she didn't want to be with him. That if she did, it was because her body wanted it, nothing more. That her feelings for him were an inconvenience, temporary, that would boil away once she set in to recruiting him, to wooing him to her cause. She tossed and turned, trying to force the thoughts into her head, to believe them. She saw three shooting stars as she tried to sleep. She didn't wish on a single one.