AN: This will be an Avengers story with one-shots for chapters. They will usually not connect. It is a place for me to put my fifteen minutes of inspiration as it comes and goes. I do take requests, they are actually appreciated. If you want a story, I do song fics, OCs, any genre, and any pairing (but no slash). Just leave a review or PM me for whatever you want, I'll write it. (If I don't get requests I will still update with my own ideas)
I will give the story a general rating of T, but I will also rate each chapter separately.
Sorry for the long author's note!
Please read and review. This goes thru the events of AoU, but very vaguely. Quotes are from memory, they might not be word for word, but I think I am close. The pairing is Natasha/Bruce.
Rating: T
The Black Widow
Natasha Romanoff, decidedly solid member of the untouchable, unalterable, unuttered list of all things off-limits.
Natasha Romanoff, the black widow. The secrets which so hauntingly dwelled in her hidden contours of regrets, the dark shades that colored her unrevealed past, they were the blackness. The hopes, the dreams, the delicate images of a young girl, spinning and twirling, with a childish grace that even the most precise professional could not rival in beauty, they were her widower – dead, cold, only a cherished memory of what was once her support, once her love.
Natasha Romanoff, shattered grace that was remolded into deadly agility. Her young innocence was a short lived, fleeting collection of seconds. Those seconds were filled with girlish laughter, hugs, and whispered, loving phrases. It was those little things, those little memories that had been nearly driven away, that made up her menagerie of rarities. Her tiny shelf in her mind, dedicated to holding the precious memories.
Natasha Romanoff, warrior without a cause. Her own flags were torn, her own banners were broken. She was left marching to the fife of the master, who had turned her beauty into a weapon, and who had fastened a leash to her collar.
Natasha Romanoff, only a human, but she doesn't feel like one sometimes.
X
She had thought herself in love. It was always twisted, never the love story everyone seemed to have in the romance novels she would confiscate from the homes of her targets. She would clutch those books protectively to her chest, closing her eyes and imagining herself dancing through the scenes depicted in thick black print on the worn pages. Running her slim yet strong fingers over words with reverence for the spell they could cast over her.
No, her experiences with love were tragedies, stories of a girl who hopelessly tried to connect with her inner self, the tender, nurturing girl who had been beaten into the unvisited crevices of her heart. She lived in one-sided affection for her trainer for years, her feelings beginning when she was at the age of fifteen.
When the man would put his hands on her, teach her to position her body to kill, she would revel in the pleasure. He would beat her if she failed – she would welcome the rebukes and the strikes. If he was with her, giving her attention, she was satisfied. It was perfect for a girl who had never seen mutual love in manifestation. She could easily tell herself that she was living in true love, while the novels she read were true fairy tales. She thought it was normal, how she lived. Realization hit her hard.
It was on a new style of mission, a mission where she was to live normally. It taught her the basics of life, the knowledge she had been starved of, and it dispelled that ignorance which had indeed been bliss. She saw her trainer as the enemy then – she saw every single damned man at the Red Room as an enemy. As the evil in the world that she was unable to escape, that had slowly worked its tentacles into her, into her life, her body. She belonged to evil. While her mission had taught her that information, it told her nothing else. So she melted straight back into that horrid lifestyle, the only difference being her fresh idea that it was bad. When it came to caring that she worked for the bad guys? Those emotions had been wiped away long ago.
Love hit her hard in the form of an arrow, ironically reminding her of Cupid and his bow. When Agent Barton tranquilized and promptly afterwards interrogated her alone in an alleyway in the freezing rain, striking a new kind of fear that she had never before felt into her bones, she was his. She complied with his every command and she agreed to return to his agency. He cuffed her, but she would never run.
Natasha then began a new life. It was heartbreaking, awakening, and refreshing all at once. Heartbreak came with guilt, and with knowing life beyond orders and masters. Awakening came through realization. She saw herself, her love, her life, her past. Refreshment came through new goals, trying to push on, break the chains that only she herself could break.
X
It took years for her to become the Natasha Romanoff that everyone knew and recognized. It took years for SHIELD to see her as the top qualified and loyal agent, instead of the unstable girl who couldn't adjust. She became a more respected, more mature version of the deadly, stone cold killer she always had been – except this time, it was for the good guys.
Barton was no longer her love interest, but a close friend. A best friend, even. He had a family already, and her idea of love had undergone and extremely necessary reformation. But this time, one of her defining attributes for love was 'unnecessary'.
X
Romantic advances from males beyond the scope of targets and victims were foreign to Natasha, in more ways than one. A 'what-are-you-doing-Friday-night' approach was an unwanted way of becoming intimate. Any man who played a pick up line at an insensitive or inconvenient time, or who showed the bare minimum of courtesy, or who in inviting her over to his place ended up degrading her to some trashy slut, received a broken finger to remind him for weeks of his wrongdoings.
It was that way that she received the label of a stone cold, emotionless machine throughout SHIELD.
She had buried it deep, called it foolish, but really all she wanted was one of those fairy tale romances, one of those Romeos from a novel.
X
The Big Guy, the man who had spent his whole life running from people like her. And here Natasha was, asking him to stop running. Asking him to totally surrender himself and trust those people. It seemed so unjust in her mind. But he was an asset, and this was an order.
"So Fury isn't after the monster?"
"Not that he's told me."
He was so different from the rest. He had the power others strived for – and he hated it. Natasha had a power as well, created by ruthless drills and endless killing. But she reveled in it, made it her shield. This man, he made his power his enemy. Natasha made her enemy her power.
X
"Is this love, Agent Romanoff?" If Natasha had hesitated at Loki's question, it was purposely. Her end game was trickery, but the road was rocky in this line of work. The exact eloquence, the very inflection of one word goes wrong, and the whole plan is blown. It was an art to play a part. But what Natasha recognized as pure difficulty, was playing a part without a script to memorize. But she was good at it. Focus.
"Love is for children, I owe him a debt," she said, slowly and carefully. She wondered where the words were coming from, if it was really just a mask or if these words were coming straight from her soul. She was positive that she ought to have said something like, "we're only close friends" or "he was there for me when I needed him, I want to return the favor". Her words startled her. Focus.
Loki seemed to contemplate, search for a way to use this against her. He only asked her to explain.
For some inexplicable reason, the words that slipped from her mouth then were truth. She was vague, yes, but far too honest. The conversation continued, as though it was a game of cat and mouse. Disturbingly, the man inside the cage was the cat, and she felt uncomfortably like the mouse. Focus.
They tossed around words, deep, cruel words, until Natasha was positive that her façade of vulnerability would materialize, become something more than an act. But she was the Black Widow. She kept composed, played Loki how she wanted. But something wasn't right afterwards.
X
The Avengers. The group of misfits, the deciding factors in earth's wellbeing, the very people holding a remote control set to detonate, but who were struggling to keep themselves on the right side. Because nobody, not even the Avengers, could be good for the sake of good. No, instead of being typical heroes and planning how to beat up the bad guys, they were arguing about which "hero" was the least acceptable.
And Natasha was one of them. One of those so called heroes who were prancing around thinking a uniform and a few kill shots made them a hero.
They all thought that they were heroes, because they were trying to save the world. But were they succeeding? Was this gathering of dysfunctional, stubborn people with weird talents who only wanted to argue their asses off really worthy of the title?
Banner stepped back, capturing the attention of everyone in the room.
"You want to think about removing yourself from this environment, Doctor?" she spoke sharply, trying to keep the mental strain she was under out of her voice.
"I was in Calcutta, I was pretty well removed," he replied, a tiny chuckle revealing far more than a sense of humor.
"Loki is manipulating you," Natasha warned, voice rising with necessity.
"And you've been doing what, exactly?"
"You didn't come here because I bat my eyelashes at you," she countered, throwing the blame from herself like it was fire intent on burning her.
"Yes and I'm not leaving because suddenly you get a little twitchy," he informed her, anger contained but evident.
This was the Avengers, earth's mightiest heroes. It was pitiful, in her eyes. She had seen hatred and dislike among ranks, and yet in the red room, enmity was shoved aside and the mission was always completed. It was a shame that the good guys were so self-centered. Call Stark the only person who seemed to cover his ears and scream "Me! Me! Me!" , but she saw that lingering trait in everyone. Pressure, like fire, brings all impurities to the surface.
Right now, the Avengers were in a pool of newfound blemishes.
Her thoughts would have continued, but an explosion and impact brought her to reality. She saw the greening man, his rage bubbling up. Shit.
X
"Look, I'm sorry about –" Bruce started again, as he had made a daily habit for the last week of living in the new Avengers Tower. Natasha held up a hand.
"Bruce if you apologize one more time," she warned, actually growing annoyed with the new greeting. If they were alone together, it was literally his conversation starter. The scientist's expression visibly displayed his submission to her request for the moment, but she knew he would continue to pepper her with "I'm sorry" and "I'm a screw up" as long as she left the conversation here.
She turned to follow him as he headed towards the lab, determined. "Bruce, wait."
When he complied, she took a deep breath. "Yes?"
"I want you to know that what happened was… not on purpose. It was hard for everyone and, I… I am not mad, I'm not afraid, it was just one bad experience," she managed. Woe a foe she could, but sort things out with a teammate? Not really.
Bruce nodded his acceptance, offering a small smile. "I really am sorry."
X
Natasha knew when someone was playing matchmaker. Tony definitely was. He would get Bruce and Natasha alone in cars, rooms, safe houses, and so on. But somehow, she didn't mind. Ordinarily, Tony would have been blackmailed into defeat, aided of course by small degrees of aggression.
The continued closeness wasn't unnoticed by Bruce either.
X
Little by little, circumstance brought the two self-described monsters into an unspoken bond. In one of their now frequent meetings (which Natasha had dubbed "gut spilling therapy"), Bruce brought up her lack of steady romance (they had decided to remain friends, to the slight and hidden disappointment of both parties).
"I heard about when SHIELD interviewed those other guys, Fantastic Four or something, and one of them used one too many pick-up lines," Bruce commented, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice. He was glad he did, when he saw the thundercloud that settled over Natasha's face.
"I'm probably ten years older than the kid," she muttered, "And I could kick his ass."
"That's why you broke his toe?" Natasha stopped for a moment, and chuckled. "Because he is younger than you and you can kick his ass? That isn't a good reason."
"No, it's the fact that he was hitting on me while being younger being less capable than me," she said slowly, the brief moment of humor gone. It was unlike Natasha to be this serious about inflicting tiny injuries upon people.
"Natasha? Johnny Storm is actually pretty capable," Bruce said, his protective nature awakening, "And he's reckless. If you had made him upset enough or startled him, he could have burnt you to a crisp." Natasha sighed, sometimes wondering if Bruce wasn't a friend, father, and potential love interest all at once.
"That's not the point," she said, agitation rising. "The point is, he didn't ask me out, he invited me to bed. I honestly only take that on missions." Bruce nodded thoughtfully, but Natasha continued. "People wonder why I'm so cold, why I seem unaffected by love and mushy stuff. It's because nobody if offering what I really want. It's easy to be cold to things that don't appeal to me."
"What does appeal to you?" If it hadn't been Bruce asking that question, Natasha could only think of a few others she would answer with the truth.
"Well… I want someone who will bring me flowers, and take me dancing, and sing Faithfully by Journey to me no matter how good or bad he sounds when he sings, who would die for me as soon as I would die for them, and who would open my car door and pull out my chair," Natasha said, eyes bright as she stared straight ahead of her. "I always see this man, but I never see his face. But I see myself beside him, walking to the movies holding hands. It was what I wanted ever since I read a romance novel I stole off the shelf in the home of a billionaire that I strangled."
"I think," Bruce said slowly, "That you can have that. It is just a matter of time. If I could…"
Natasha stared at him, and he stared back at her. They both know what he wanted to add.
If I could, I would do all of that for you.
X
They reached a new sort of friendship, one of utmost trust on Natasha's part, and cautious trust on Bruce's. It didn't hurt like she expected. It gave her a challenge.
Battles and enemies came and went, leaving both heroes wondering what they were, and where they wanted to be.
"You mean… just disappear?" Bruce asked again, like he had a hundred times before when she asked him. She bit her lip, struggling for the words.
"If you don't want to…"
"I can't want to," Bruce whispered, and Natasha looked down to hide her expression. She was afraid of what it might reveal. "Natasha. You know I want to be the man who holds the door for you, and brings you flowers, and hell, I'd even sing Faithfully if you want but it won't sound good. I just don't know how to make it work."
"But you would," she spoke, "if things were different."
"Yeah, I would."
X
Natasha Romanoff, as changing as the tide and yet as constant as the sun.
Natasha Romanoff, both a follower and a leader.
Natasha Romanoff, teammate, lover, protector, and Avenger.