Here's a little more today. Thank you for all the reviews! I love it when you do that! This story keeps writing and rewriting itself in my mind like a runaway train, so it might take a little longer between chapters now.

Steve stared at the monster that was once Dr. Banner, ripping up the rail that covered that stretch of the river and throwing it, slinging it into a random building. "Hey—hey!" Steve ducked, narrowly avoiding being hit by a bench, "It's okay, Big Guy—" He was pretty sure Natasha said that and the hint of recognition told him it was the right thing to say, "Sun's getting—" Steve was thrown into the side of a building. Apparently it only worked for Natasha. "Look, Tasha's tough—she's going to be okay—"

It wasn't helping. Nothing was helping. Wanda's presence was making him even angrier and it seemed like there was nothing he could do. Then somehow, the Hulk barreled past him and into the streets of the city.

Before

She noticed.

Of course she did. She must have, with all of her experience monitoring human behavior. Yet instead of recoiling in disgust, which was what he expected (and ultimately dreaded) or openly encouraging it (an obvious sign that she was going to try and use it to her advantage) she let him maintain some semblance of dignity. In other words, she ignored it. It was a greater kindness than Bruce expected. He refused to let himself interpret it as anything more.

Being out in the open had an odd effect on Natasha. He thought she would feel bare and exposed but she appeared more relieved than anything else. She was busy, running around a lot between trials and figuring out who in the world the remainder of SHIELD had to answer to and coming up with the next game plan. She revealed to him one night that she was planning on rebuilding SHIELD as a part of the public sector. He was too busy staring at her—more specifically her lips. He blinked.

"Sorry, what?"

"I'm rebuilding SHIELD as a public program. They've recognized that we've served a role that is kind of—well crucial to this whole 'life on Earth' thing."

"You're taking the career change very well. Less spying and—erhm—assassining—" Her eyebrow raised, "Assassinating, that's the word—er, sorry, and more public representative and figurehead stuff." She was probably questioning his intelligence at that point, but it was just difficult to focus for some reason.

"It's easier." Natasha took that moment to hold out her hand. It was part of the routine, but he didn't do the usual "handshake" that they developed. Instead, despite all the protests ringing in his head (rejection—the other guy—monster—I'm a lot older than her—dorky—) he clasped her hand. She didn't visibly react, "I'm an open target. Don't have to worry so much about how much people know about me—don't have to dye my hair. Can't just be "disappeared" if I ever outlive perceived usefulness. Spying is—hard. It's what I'm best at—well aside from killing—but it's hard, Bruce."

This felt like an incredibly personal conversation and he was afraid that something he said would shut her down entirely. Instead, he simply squeezed her hand. She looked at him, cocking her head to the side as if she had never truly seen him before. Something seemed to shift.

Later that week, she sat with a paperback with its spine painfully twisted to accommodate her and wasn't even looking at him when he came in and sat down next to her. She held out her hand palm up. Without hesitation, he took it and pulled up some blueprints Tony wanted him to look up on the in table. They sat that way in silence for several hours. It was a simple and oddly domestic evening only a few days before things went to Hell, which were partially his fault (everyone seemed to forget that he helped after all) and not the Other Guy that time around.

Natasha didn't tell him it wasn't his fault in part for being roped into Tony's insanity. She didn't seem to lie to him anymore, but that would have been one lie that he would've liked to hear. Bruce remembered clearing his throat, ruining the moment. Her hand slid away from his and retreated into her lap. She was waiting for him to say something.

"You look like a college student, perched like that with a book."

"I never went to college." She replied flatly.

Bruce felt like he had stumbled into the exact wrong thing to say, "I uh—sorry."

"I didn't do any of that stuff. Middle school, high school, none of that. It was all just—" She paused for a moment, "What would you be doing right now if you never—"

"Fucked myself up majorly?"

"I was going to say created your Hulk persona, but that too."

"I would still be researching. I'd still be a scientist or something. You?"

She tipped her head back, "If I lived a normal life—one without the Red Room—I'd be dead."

Bruce shook his head, "I don't think it'd be that bad but—" the next words tumbled out of his mouth before he could retrieve them, "—I wouldn't have met you if I was normal."

Natasha placed her book to the side and shifted to get closer to Bruce. For a moment, he felt like he couldn't breathe as she lay against his shoulder and laced her hand around his forearm before leaving her fingers atop his wrist. He was acutely aware of every point where her body touched his. It felt so intimate and secretive that Bruce feared that someone would accidentally walk in and Natasha would come to her senses and break away from him. No one came. Her breathing was slow and Bruce purposely slowed his breathing to match hers. It was barely a whisper.

"I would've taught dance."

"Stop and turn around." Lena ordered. Clint almost laughed. She sounded just like Natasha when she said that.

"Are you crazy?"

"No." Lena turned and saw the fast approaching green monster, "Oh well. It's too late anyway.

They both ducked out and rolled from either side of the car as an angry fist crushed it. Clint tumbled into the snow, getting a mouthful of it and the dirt it covered. By the time he stood and turned to drag Lena away, she was already in front of the Hulk, her hand outstretched. He found himself afraid to move because the Hulk seemed fixated on Lena the way he turned to Natasha for comfort.

"She said when the sun falls, you go to sleep." The Hulk bristled and twitched. Lena seemed to sense his frustration, "I know, she's not here right now—I want her here too. Believe me, I do." The Hulk roared and tried to smash Lena, but she ducked and rolled out of the way easily, "Wait for me and I'll come back!" He froze, "Wait for me and I'll come back!" Lena repeated, "You know these words? I do. She does. Natasha always comes back."

Clint watched in fascination as the Hulk turned and stumbled away. Lena fell to her knees, covering her face. Clint ran up to her, "What were you—what's wrong?"

"He's scary." Lena shook her head as if trying to banish the thought, "He's a monster that can't be killed." She looked like she was going to say something more, but they were interrupted by Bruce's voice, which sounding like a moan coming from the snow drift.

"Where is Tasha?"

"You caused our best pupil to defect." Ivan told her as he wrapped up her arm, smoothing out the gauze lovingly. Natalia supposed he missed his creation. She once accepted his orders without even flinching. He was the only one that could. Olga tried once, but found that Natalia was more likely to take liberties when she was under her care.

Natalia stifled a shudder at the feel of his cold hands on her skin, "Natasha was in control for most of that part. Why is she there? Why is she in my head?"

"We don't know." Ivan spoke softly. Natalia found that she almost missed his gruff voice.

"I want to get rid of her." Natalia told him as she followed him out of the room, "I want to get rid of her entirely."

"I know. The best thing to do is to go into your normal routine." He turned to look at her, cocking his head, "You know, the one you had before you went insane."

Natalia shook her head, "Everyone knows my face. Natasha made sure of it."

"Yes, but you can do something else to help the program along, darling." Ivan opened the door.

Somewhere, deep inside, Natasha was shouting and banging at a door in a nonexistent room that still existed nonetheless. She stared out at the rows of beds where girls lay sleeping. They all had the same type. Caucasian girls with lithe bodies and pretty faces, ranging from ages four to eleven. Natasha knew that the older girls were kept by age until they dwindled down to one or two recruits that would be used as full-blown operatives. It was a sick, sadistic process that created the most efficient of weapons and the worst of monsters.

Ivan saw none of this internal debate. He followed her eyes to the girl crying quietly. He made a note in his notebook. Natalia surmised that he still kept all of his records on paper. She could use that. She shut out Natasha's protests and turned towards Ivan, her face devoid of all expression.

"What is it that you want me to do?

"Oh that easy. Your experience cannot be wasted. You're the new dance teacher."

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