"So I tell Sam he can't use his wings, and I tell Vision he can't change his density—he always does that so you try and punch him and then just end up lurching through him instead—and I tell them they have three minutes to duke it out. And you know what Vision does?"

"What?" Bruce asked, entranced. They were sitting next to a crackling fire. The breeze made the air just cool enough that its warmth was welcome, and they were sitting on Nat's unzipped sleeping roll, enjoying the night air and each other's company.

"Vision used his cape."

"What? How?"

"It's as much a part of his body as his arms or legs, apparently. He grabbed Sam by the ankle and dangled him over Rhodes and Wanda—who were cracking up—and offered a truce."

"Not much of a truce if you make it while dangling by your ankle."

"Fair, but Sam had it coming."

"Why?"

"He started just going into Vision's room every few hours. Just opening the door and walking in."

"That seems like an invasion of privacy," Bruce remarked.

"That was the point. It's almost exactly what Vision does, when he just goes through walls or the floor to get somewhere. It's like we have a ghost."

"So then why was Vision so upset?"

"Because Sam had walked in on him in a—well, let's just say a sensitive moment."

"Wait. . . are you saying. . ."

"Yeah. Yeah I am saying."

"With who?"

"Who do you think?"

"Wanda?" Bruce was incredulous.

"Rhodes and Sam go back to the Capitol pretty frequently, so it's often just Vision and Wanda in the main living quarters. I guess they got close."

"What about you?"

"I don't spend much time there."

"Why not?" Bruce asked. Natasha bit her lip. She hadn't lied to him about how much time she spent looking for him, but she felt like if he knew the full extent he might be a bit creeped out.

"They're all young, excited, passionate. I'm just past that, I guess."

"Jaded much?" Bruce playfully elbowed her. Nat rocked sideways, smiling self-deprecatingly. She didn't say anything.

"Ok but, I mean, you do wonder. . . right?" Bruce asked. His eyebrows were raised and he smiled mischievously at Nat, almost guilty.

"Wonder what?"

"About Vision!"

"Are you seriously asking me about that?!"

"Well, I mean, aren't you curious?"

Natasha laughed aloud. "Not that curious!"

"Ok, ok, but honestly, you do have to wonder, right? Just. . . what do you think that's like?"

"I don't know. They're cute. Kind of hot and cold, off and on. It's clear they care very much about one another, but I think that's why they dance around it so much. I'm not sure if they'd even admit to themselves that they're a thing."

"Why do you think people are like that?" Bruce asked, suddenly contemplative.

"Well, I mean, Vision's not really a person," Nat teased. Bruce was lost in thought though.

He lay back on the sleeping roll to look at the stars. The fire was starting to burn down to coals, so the tongues of flame didn't block out the starscape above. Nat watched him. His stubble had come in since she had found him, almost three weeks ago now. His beard was salt and pepper, as were his sideburns, but his hair was still thick and dark brown and curly.

"People are like that because life is complicated," Nat sighed. "Relationships work when both sides prioritize them and decide to simplify. If everything else is more important, it just falls away."

She lay back beside him, looking at the stars. A shooting star appeared for a brief moment, flashing in and out of sight.

"Did you see that?" Bruce whispered.

"Yeah."

"Did you wish?"

"I don't know what I'd wish for."

"I do."

The weight of his words was enough—the air was already thick between them. Nat rolled over to face him. He looked at her, serious, giving her the opportunity to question or stop him. She didn't. He leaned in and kissed her.

For the first time, it wasn't a lightning strike, a tenuous, frightened moment. Natasha relaxed into the kiss, luxuriating in the peace of it. Bruce pulled her against him and she gladly gave, contouring her body around his—he was so warm, so solid.

Before long she was straddling him—her hands skating along his back, his neck, taking in every part of him. His hands were firm, powerful but respectful—she almost giggled to herself at the chasteness of it. He would move a hand up her back, cupping her shoulder blade, trailing his fingertips down her spine and leaving her tingling, but he never so much as grazed her chest. He didn't even try to take her shirt off. He sat up to get a better angle and she brushed her hand along the hem of his shirt, sliding up his chest beneath. He stiffened.

"Maybe we should go up to the cabana," he whispered.

"It's beautiful out here, under the stars," Natasha hummed in his ear, teasing his shirt up further. He kissed her again and tentatively fiddled with hers—Nat was too glad to pull it over her head, tossing it off to the side. Bruce drank in the sight of her—she was beautiful. And so scarred.

Beneath her collarbone was a burst of tiny marks spreading out down towards her armpit and over her bicep as well. A huge gash over her hip told a story of another time, and several more divots and pits were laid out across her abdomen. A faint line over the rise of her left breast into her sternum under her bra was visible as well—perhaps the oldest of the bunch. She had been so, so hurt.

Natasha let him look for a moment, then leaned in and kissed him again, forcing him to look away. She began to pull his shirt over his shoulders. He allowed her to, but she could instantly feel him stiffen.

"What's wrong?" she whispered. She could feel goosebumps rising on her back—she wanted to be against him once more, to share his warmth.

"It's just the shirt," Bruce whispered. Nat furrowed her brow in confusion.

"I've seen you shirtless before though. A lot."

"I know, I know, it's just. . . a bit harder. When I look like this and you look like that," Bruce eyed her figure up and down again. Her body was made of fine planes and delicate angles—a flat stomach, a narrow waist, the deliciously round swell of her breasts into angular shoulders. Bruce couldn't help but feel self-conscious in comparison. He wasn't ugly, but he was pathetically average compared to the gorgeous woman in front of him. Nat bit her lip before gently pushing him down on his back.

She kissed him in the center of his chest, over one of his recent scars from the sores he had gained as the Hulk.

"I think you're beautiful right here," she murmured against his skin. On his left pec he had another one, and she kissed there as well. "Here too," she whispered.

She continued over his chest, along his arm, tracing her way over his body, kissing every possible imperfection he could worry over. He wasn't an unattractive man—well proportioned, lean, a mat of soft hair covering his chest—something Natasha found very becoming. She traced her thumb along a scar on his right shoulder. She didn't know how he had gotten it. He shivered at her touch before reaching up, tracing the scar on her hip. She froze at his touch and he wondered if he had done something wrong.

"Yours are beautiful too," he whispered.

Nat kissed him again, laying on top of him, relishing in the warmth.

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close.

She should have been alarmed by this. Should have stopped it. Kissing was fine, but whispering, holding, murmuring—all of these set red alarms off in the back of her mind. They were things to be avoided, signs of weakness and attachment. Sex was good—great even, important for stress relief and often to loosen up physically. But this—this was the edge of a cliff.

His fingers traced down her spine and sent shivers through her entire body. His hand grazed over and around her hip, until his thumb arrived at the scar again. She didn't think of it, kissing him, working her hands slowly toward his zipper, but he kept tracing it, grazing his thumb back and forth. Nat sat up, pulling away from the touch.

He sat up as well, bringing them closer, her straddling his hips. He reached out and dragged his fingers down her collarbone, feeling the texture of the tiny scars below. Natasha froze again, unable to stop herself. Bruce felt her body tense beneath his touch.

"I'm sorry," Bruce whispered. "But how did you get these?"

Instantly Natasha looked away, down the beach. She felt like she had been drenched in cold water.

"Natasha?"

"I just, I need a moment." She stood up abruptly and walked a few steps away, searching in the dark for her shirt. When she found it, she pulled it on before turning to face Bruce.

"I'm sorry, I won't ask again," Bruce tried to reassure her from where he sat, clearly confused.

"No, it's fine, it's no big deal," her voice was raspy. "I just don't want to be touched there. Or like that. Anymore."

The surprise on Bruce's face transitioned into shock, then hurt, then anger. Natasha watched it all, like a silent movie in front of her, playing for free.

"Ok," he replied, his voice icy. "Ok then. I see."

He stood up and walked away, beneath the cabana and north up the beach. Natasha watched him go, trying not to hyperventilate. She just couldn't. The panic in her throat took hold and she bit back a sob, feeling her heart pounding in her chest, thumping so loudly the roaring in her ears drowned out everything else. She sat in the sand and tried to breathe, tried to calm herself down. It didn't work. Her vision blurred into a dark tunnel and she felt hot tears roll down her cheeks.