Natasha awoke to a pounding headache. She was curled up tightly in a ball—her left arm was asleep where she was lying on it and her back cracked and protested as she unfurled herself. She felt Bruce shift as she rolled over onto her back—he was sitting up, leaning against the wall of the cabana right next to her. His knees were pulled tightly to his chest, trying to give her room. She shuffled over slightly, allowing him to relax just a little.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to hover," he said. "The nightmares seemed to come back every time I gave you more space, but when it started warming up I didn't want you to overheat."

Natasha closed her eyes and brought her hand up to her cheek. She felt her face slowly, starting with her lips, moving over her nose, her swollen eyes, her forehead. Her skin was salty from the sweat and tears. God, what a mess.

"I am so sorry," she whispered.

"Don't do that. Don't apologize."

Natasha groaned and sat up slowly, every motion prodding her headache. A bottle of water was next to her on the floor. She took it and drank deeply. She couldn't remember the last time water had tasted so good.

She put her head between her knees and tried to process. She had told him about Kemerovo. The trainyard. A pit of shame and guilt sat in her stomach. She could feel the words she had said sliding amorphously in and out of her memory. Her mind was suddenly fuzzy.

She could smell antiseptic, hear the clanging of metal on metal, taste a bitter, dry taste on her tongue. The Red Room, echoing around in her mind. SHIELD had tested her extensively, ensuring that her conditioning wouldn't affect her in the field. That didn't mean it didn't affect her elsewhere. She could feel it tinkering around in her brain, making synapses misfire, putting feelings there that weren't her own.

She furrowed her brow and concentrated on fighting it. She had done it before, many times. She grimaced with the effort, remembering Bruce's face, the sound of the waves a few feet away, and the feel of the sand in between her toes.

"Nat, are you ok?" Bruce's voice was full of concern.

"Yeah, just hold on a sec," she whispered.

Kemerovo. The trainyard. Her headache intensified, throbbing in her temples and at the base of her neck. She needed to feel the horror and shame of it, she had to in order to stay connected to the moment instead of drawn back in time.

Eventually the fuzziness passed. She blew out a breath to the count of ten. Bruce watched her mouthing the numbers and had to bite back a smile—she was using the same breathing techniques she had taught him.

"I am so sorry," she finally spoke. "I shouldn't have fallen apart on you like that." She stood up too fast and had to pause for a moment to let the static clear from her vision and the dizziness pass.

"Nat, stop, please, just sit down and take a moment," Bruce jumped up after her.

"No, I didn't mean for any of this to happen—" she peered around the cabana for her tank top, suddenly feeling exposed in just her bra. She gave up and hugged her arms to her chest. "I have to go, I meant to leave—" she broke off again, her thoughts scattered.

"Wait, you were going to leave?" Bruce's voice was incredulous.

"Yeah," Nat avoided looking at him. She checked the room once more for her shirt and then left, walking out and down the ramp to the beach. Bruce rushed after her.

"You can't do that!" he exclaimed. Nat walked up into the Quinjet and pulled a random shirt off the planning table inside, yanking it over her head. She didn't notice until it was on that it was one of his—a light yellow shirt that read "this shirt is blue, if you run fast enough". Some stupid physics pun, of course. She hesitated, leaving it on before digging around on the table for one of her own that was clean.

"Nat, stop, please, for the love of god, just stop and talk to me," Bruce pled from behind her. Natasha stopped, putting her hands on the table and taking a deep breath. She couldn't cry again—what a fucking disaster. Her face felt hot—he had carried her last night. Literally carried her.

"Bruce, I didn't mean to—to fall apart like that. That was messy, it wasn't what I intended," she began. She didn't know how to do this.

"I'm glad you did."

Natasha turned to face him. She tried to keep her face stony. "It was a mistake."

"No—"

"Bruce." Her eyes flashed. He shut up. "I'm sorry. Everything you said on the beach was right. You were right. Are right. I meant to—to agree. It won't work. You're right. You have been all along. I should have left you here, allowed you to choose your own path. It wasn't right to come here pushing my agenda on you. I'm sorry."

She turned back to the table and began rummaging for a shirt again. She found one, but didn't pull his off. He was still standing there; she could feel his eyes on her back. She turned to face him again. For possibly the first time ever, she couldn't read his face.

"Why did you bother telling me all that then?" he asked.

Nat breathed in sharply. She felt the thickening in her throat grow—she wouldn't cry again.

"You said you had an image of me. Only what I wanted you to see. I didn't want. . ." she paused, trying to think of how to word it. "I didn't want you to put me on a pedestal." She turned and walked further into the jet. She grabbed the carton of MRE's and carried it out to the beach—she would leave those for Bruce, he might need them.

"So that was your plan? Throw that at me and just leave? Just like that?"

Natasha didn't reply. She grabbed things from the beach haphazardly, crates and tools and navigation instruments.

"The first time I ever really see Natasha Romanoff and she's running away." Bruce said disbelievingly. Natasha froze.

"It's not like that," she said slowly.

"Isn't it?" Bruce asked. "The moment things started becoming real, you couldn't take it."

"Those things I did Bruce. . . what I said last night, that doesn't even scratch the surface."

"I don't care."

"I do. I can't . . . inflict that on you." Natasha felt her chin wobble. Where were all of these fucking tears coming from?

"You didn't seem to think that a few days ago. Or last night, before I touched your scars."

"It's been a while." she mumbled.

"Since what, Natasha?"

She didn't answer.

"Since what? Since you cared for someone? Let someone in? Told the truth? Had sex? Since what?"

"Since anybody saw those." she breathed. Bruce froze—he had been speaking so harshly to her. He could still remember the feel of her in his arms, clinging to his neck, crying into his shirt. Of course she would run from that.

"When we were going after Hydra," Nat hesitated, "and then Ultron, I felt invincible. We were The Avengers. It felt so good. And then Sokovia happened. And you left."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Like I said—you were right. You deserved to stand up for yourself. It wasn't fair. I'm sorry I made you do it again last night. I just wanted you to understand."

"Understand what?"

"Why I have to go."

"Natasha—"

"You deserve someone who's as good as you," Nat interrupted. "Who calms you. Who hasn't killed like I have, who doesn't represent all the things I know you hate in yourself. No more pretty picture," she stated. "Just me."

"Just you. Just you." Bruce guffawed. Nat set the crate she was carrying down in the sand and sat on it, rubbing her temples. Bruce softened.

"Natasha," he hesitated. He sat next to her in the sand. "You are not everything I hate in myself. I was upset last night. It's hard not to feel. . . out of control. It's not you I don't trust, I shouldn't have said that, I just sometimes forget."

"You meant everything you said last night, Bruce. And you were right."

"Ok, maybe," Bruce countered. "But what you shared. . . it changes that."

Nat looked away.

"I can't imagine . . . I don't have words for it, Natasha. I'm so sorry you went through that."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not. And I know you know that, but I'm going to say it anyways. Thank you for telling me."

Nat paused, evaluating his words. He meant them. "I don't talk about it much," she said quietly.

"I noticed," Bruce said wryly.

Nat half-smiled at that.

"Flashbacks?" Bruce asked. Nat nodded. He understood those.

They sat there in silence for a moment, both thinking about things they usually tried not to. Bruce was the first to shake it.

"Have you ever tried talking to someone about it?" he asked quietly. Nat was quiet for a moment. Then she snorted. He snickered as well. As if.

"I'm fine," Natasha eventually calmed enough to say. "I just have to keep moving. Keep doing what I've been doing."

"Avenging."

"Yeah," she agreed. "Which is why I have to go."

She stood up and picked the crate up she had been sitting on. Bruce stood up and followed her back into the jet noiselessly. She set the crate down and began sorting through the clothes on the planning table.

"Don't."

Natasha froze.

"Don't go."

"Bruce," she warned, keeping her eyes locked on the mounds of clothes in front of her. She couldn't lose her resolve now.

"Not yet. Please. We'll train. I'll—I'll come back. I will."

She whirled around to face him. "But you said—"

"I know what I said. I'm saying something different now." He stepped closer to her. She leaned back against the planning table.

"You were right last night. You shouldn't want me, you don't know me," she fumbled.

"I know what I want," he replied evenly.

"It's not just that story, Bruce. There are more. And I get mad, a lot. All the time—you don't do anger. I'll feel guilty, and I don't want to lie to you-"

"Natasha."

"What."

"I'll come back."

"Why?"

"Because I know you. And I know what I want." He took a step closer.

"You don't know me, Bruce."

"I do." He closed the distance between them.

He stood inches away, towering over her. Her heart started thrumming in her chest.

"I think you're beautiful here," Bruce whispered, laying his finger right over where her heart was. Natasha froze. "I think you're beautiful here," he brushed his thumb over her forehead, indicating her brain. "And I think you're beautiful here." His fingers grazed over her collarbone, where he knew the scars were hiding underneath his yellow shirt. Nat trembled, letting out a shaky breath.

"I don't. . ." she whispered.

"I don't know how to do this either, Nat. It's all a toss-up. But I'll try if you will."

"I'm not worth it," she breathed. "You have no idea. . ."

"You're good, Nat. Good." The intensity of his whisper wrapped her heart in a vice grip.

He kissed her. She leaned into him, savoring the feeling. It felt good to believe that, even for a fleeting moment. It felt good to be held.

Then the guilt and shame rose in her again. She froze, the feeling of ice-cold water pouring over her once more. Bruce pulled back and saw the look in her eyes. Without a word he pulled her into his arms, holding her just like he had the night before.

"I'm going to have to fight an uphill battle to convince you you're not a terrible person, aren't I?" he murmured into her hair.

"Might as well call yourself Sisyphus," she whispered into his shirt, but he felt her smile against his chest. And her arms came up and wrapped around his waist, holding him gently. She relaxed slowly, the tension leaving her body bit by bit. After a little while, she pulled away.

"I reek." she said.

"Smell great to me," Bruce countered.

"I'm gonna shower."

"If I leave the jet, am I going to have to worry about you pulling a fast one on me?" he asked.

She smiled. "No. I'll stick around, I guess. I did promise that when this jet left, you'd be on it."

He smiled wryly—yes she had. She squeezed his hand and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Despite their easy banter, her heart was pounding in her chest.

Guilt and elation and joy and grief and fear flowed through her in fast forward, tumbling over each other and blending into a confusing, overwhelming mass of emotion.

She was staying. How had he convinced her to do that? She wracked her mind, trying to remember where in the conversation she had yielded. She couldn't recall. Her stomach flipped—were those butterflies? Or was it fear, at the thought of actually doing this? Oh god—she was actually going to do this. She clenched her fists and leaned over the sink, slightly dizzy.

Clint had lectured her about this. He would poke fun at her every time he saw her flirting casually with someone new.

You keep playing Nat, but one of these days some guy is going to come along and you're going to want to be honest with him. To drop this façade and let him in. Then you're gonna try it and realize you have no idea how.

She had laughed him off. If only she had known.