Natasha watched quietly from afar as Bruce set the flowers on the grave. A part of her told her to leave it, to not get involved—Bruce's private life wasn't her concern, and sentiments weren't her strong suit. Still, she found herself bundling the coat tighter around her as she moved to close the distance between them, falling still as she stood next to him. She spoke no words, just held a companionable silence—if he wanted to fill it, he could. If not, she at least offered her company. That had to be enough.

He knew the team would be there this time. He didn't mind. Usually, they could find it in themselves not to bother him when it really mattered, and right now…

When he finally made it back to America, and recent events came to a close, Bruce had taken Tony up on his earlier offer of just about anything the normally mild-mannered scientist could need. He'd been hesitant to take advantage of it at first, but this had been something on his mind for a long time, something tangible he could make peace with. So when he'd arranged for regular flights to visit Dayton, Ohio, Tony hadn't asked any questions, agreeing almost immediately.

Bruce didn't have good memories of Dayton. It reminded him of the darkness earlier in his childhood, of the angry words his father once threw at him which now, in an impetuously ironic way, rang true. But it also reminded him of his mother, her kindness, even through what must have been the most difficult years of her life. And Bruce felt that he owed her this much, at least, to visit her whenever he had the chance.

It was childish, a voice in the back of his head told him. But he talked to her as if she were there, as if she could hear him. He'd believed that a long time ago—of a peaceful afterlife and of guardian angels—that somehow she was still watching over him, but it'd long been beaten out. Now it was a minimal comfort, a way he could get things off his chest without confronting his teammates. He could imagine they would be likely just as quick to judge as any others had before them, though he'd never chanced opening up to them. Here he could speak of missions and fears, of memories—whether good or bad—of the monster within him or the ones he'd faced in the world.

And perhaps it was as if his mother was listening.

Today, there would be no talking. Only silent respect as he leaned down to place the flowers on his mother's grave, this time a favorite of hers. Irises—he remembered them from a photo album he'd salvaged. The first claws of winter chill bit through him and settled in around the headstones and nearly bare trees, and he knew the flowers would not survive long. But he would be staying only a little longer than the rest of the team, who had been chasing down something or the other. Bruce had pushed the mission from his mind.

He was aware of someone stepping up beside him, though he never remembered anyone following him to the cemetery. A quick glance and a glimpse of fiery hair, contrasting with the frosted surroundings, told him it was Natasha. He allowed the silence to carry on for a few minutes, enjoying the company, though he felt, after some time, that there was something to say.

"My mother," he started, unsure what he planned to say, but still allowing the words to spill out. "I don't remember everything. I was too young and it was a long time ago. But I remember…" He paused, cleared his throat as his voice threatened to break. "I remember she used to say that irises were her favorite because of what they symbolized. Faith, wisdom, valor, friendship… But she said that what mattered the most was hope. Without hope there is nothing. I didn't understand then, but now," he shook his head slowly. "I'm not going to pretend that what I've done—what any of us has done—can be forgiven and fixed with a concept alone, but it was that which brought us all together. And I want to believe it's hope that fuels us now. I think my mother was much smarter than anyone gave her credit for."

He looked up, finally meeting her eyes. "I'm sorry, about last week… and this." He shifted in his jacket, truly feeling the cold for the first time, and glanced up at the darkening sky. It would probably snow soon. "It's," he stopped himself, not sure if he wanted to say what he had planned. He felt too exposed, too open. He buried that thought along with the rest. Probably best to keep to himself. "I'm sorry," he muttered once again, and he couldn't be sure if it was aimed at Natasha or his mother.