Chapter Text
He used to be better at hiding, she thought.
Natasha could no longer claim this particular task to be her job, not anymore. Actually, this technically counted as stalking, all things considered. She passed soundlessly through the corner store, following him like a second shadow. It was easy for her to go relatively unnoticed, all a matter of the right mannerisms and costuming, her red hair tucked beneath a baseball cap. Bruce Banner treaded down the aisle, distractedly tossing a loaf of wonder bread into a plastic basket, while scrutinizing a the headlines of The Washington Post. ‘DEPT. OF DEFENSE STRUGGLES TO REGROUP AFTER SHIELD FALLOUT.’ She frowned slightly. That’s why she was there, after all. She wasn’t the only one who could suffer tremendously in a post-SHIELD world.
She hadn’t planned on this, not immediately at least. Having so much of her former life now laid out, beat by terrible beat, for everyone to see, was difficult in a way she had not anticipated. Having long known how to keep herself safe and out of the public’s reach, she did not struggle to carry herself through to the next day. Having SHIELD suddenly pulled out from under her (by her own doing, even if Steve and Fury and Maria had all agreed, she was still the triggerman, so to speak), there was no next mission. No marks. No covers. There would probably be Capitol Hill hearings until the end of time, and hey, maybe someday she would even be arrested, but until then, she reached out for purpose. She wasn’t without options. HYDRA still loomed, skittering on the underbelly of American defense departments and beyond. She’d been courted by several intelligence agencies worldwide, promising amnesty in exchange for her skill set. Admittedly, she was hesitant to sign herself into someone else’s service. SHIELD had been her harbor for so long, and finding that she may have done HYDRA’s work ate at her a bit. No, she needed some quiet contemplation, time to consider Black Widow’s place in the world. So she decided to gather her allies, even if that meant watching them from afar, making sure they were staying afloat.
Which, naturally, brought her to Bruce.
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“What do you mean, he’s not with you?” She doesn’t mean to sound so alarmed, practically hissing into her phone, and Tony, no idiot, picks it up immediately.
“Was I supposed to put a v-chip in him? He’s a grown, indestructible man, I don’t know. One minute he’s playing with a rad detector in my living room, the next he’s got his sad little duffel bag all packed up and off to god knows where.” She hears him sigh. “I told him he had a room as long as he wanted, but…I don’t know, you try talking him out of rabbiting across the country. He’s stubborn, like, he’s actually very terrible and stubborn.” This is a setback and they both know it, especially now that Bruce’s safety net had disappeared. She’d been hoping rather direly that, if he was hiding, it was behind Stark Tower’s wall of weaponry and legal defense.
“Does he have anything? Any resources?” She’s seen him get by with next to nothing, but neither Tony or Pepper would let him get away with that, and she’s grateful. He has a debit card, well-funded and hard to trace, warm clothes, first aid, satellite phone, and anything else he might need in dire straights. Tony sounds tired as he speaks, and it’s clear to see that caring about Bruce Banner is a delicate and nerve-wracking business.
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He looked well enough, from what she could immediately discern. Dressed shabbily, but he certainly wasn’t out of place. His newest haven was a fishing town on the coast of Washington. A quasi-popular destination for hikers, outdoor-enthusiasts, the area was literally called Cape Disappointment. She read on a plaque that it was named by the man who had missed out on discovering the nearby Columbia River, but after she had recovered from her inappropriate laughter, she sighed knowing that Bruce would choose this place, of all places. He would. He really would, she thought.
His jeans already had holes forming around the knees and his flannel shirt looked threadbare, but he was there. Solid. Unharmed. Buying bread. For a moment, Natasha wondered if that might be enough for her, that she could keep a watchful, but distant eye on him, only intervening if necessary. It was hard not to scrutinize him, knowing she was probably subconsciously looking for a reason to pull him back, but the truth was, SHIELD had ordered her to watch him for years, and this wasn’t even close to some of the hell she’d watched him go through. But he was good at hiding things, and she found herself cataloguing; the dark circles under his eyes, the sharp line of his cheekbones, the grey that crept underneath his dark thicket of hair, seemingly more every time she saw him. He looked a little washed out, but taking one glance at the pouring rain outside, she supposed it came with the territory. A quiet sigh escaped her as she watched him from the corner of the bait and tackle section of the store. There would always be that tiny bit of novelty to observing him, which she knew was unfair. A Hulk in his natural habitat, checking the freshness on a carton of blueberries. As he moved on to a crate of apples, she found herself squirming. Okay, she told herself. He’s safe. Pull back.
“Heads up.”
An apple zipped through the air and as her hand rose unconsciously to catch it, giving off a little ‘thwack’ as it hit her palm, her eyes shot across it’s trajectory, to where Bruce stood, arms crossed. She squared her shoulders, eyebrow raised, and she toyed with the apple for a moment, briefly considering throwing it right back at him. They remained like that for a second, staring at each other across tables of tackle boxes, and for once, Natasha couldn’t tell what he was thinking. There’s something in his face, creased into the lines of his brow, and she couldn’t tell if it was distrust, worry or disappointment. And never one to make a scene, he turned around, placing a carton of blueberries in his basket, and headed for the checkout counter without another word.
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She was waiting for him outside the store, arms crossed tight across her chest as she struggled to keep her frustration at bay. Why was he doing this? Bruce no longer lived in a world that didn’t want him. It had finally stepped up to the plate, willing to adapt to him, despite the fear he could inspire. Maybe that’s projection, she admitted to herself. There was a need to smooth over some of the lingering messiness of their first (and last) meeting, and she knew a part of that meant coming to terms with fear, and finding out if it remained mutual. A part of her would always be a little terrified of the Hulk. But she wanted to erase some of the resentment she’d seen lingering on the edges of their every interaction.
Loki’s manipulating you.
And you’ve been doing what, exactly?
It wouldn’t be easy to explain to him, that he didn’t understand the kind of attachments spies could put on their assignments. Terrified or not, she’d rooted for him.
A little jingling bell announced his exit and before she knew it, he placed a bag of groceries in her hand as he handled two others, along with the keys to a beat-up old jeep. Natasha masked her surprise quickly, and placed the bag in the back. They both seemed invested in the idea of playing this off as normal, as planned, but she could see the stored tension in the hunch of his shoulders, and the anxious darting of his eyes. She withdrew her duffel bag from the rented sedan, piled into the passenger seat, settling in with a faint sigh. He adjusted his mirror and she saw a faint tremor in his hands.
“Do you like pie?”
“Hmm?” She turned her head to face him.
“If I made a pie, would you eat it?”
Her brows furrowed closely. He sank a little in his seat, and she swore she could see traces of pink staining the corners of his cheeks. “This is not the conversation I was really expecting.” She finally replied, somewhat mutely. “But yes.” Given that answer, he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. He didn’t say much more as they pulled out of town and neared the edges of the dense pine forest, but she didn’t mind it. She was still a little stuck on the pie. If he had the time to pick up baking, she thought, things couldn’t be so bad.
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“Home” for Bruce was a one-room cabin that rested on the edge of the woods, in a neat line of identical cabins, and Natasha figured they were popular with hunters or fishermen or recluse human-mutates. It was shabby, but not without its comforts, and she took in the little details, the things that told her that he had made the space his own. His only dirty dishes were a pile of coffee-browned mugs, and she wondered how long he had put off going into town. Those hideous brown shoes of his hid in the corner, hopefully abandoned for the black work boots he wore now. It did seem to suit him, admittedly, probably better than Stark Tower had, even with all it’s security and opportunity. Old habits really did seem to die hard and she wondered if Bruce actually liked the mountain man lifestyle or maybe he just couldn’t accept deserving more.
As he began to pile his groceries into the fridge, she took the chance to look at what he called life, and also check the security of his perimeter. Looking out the window, she frowned. The forest was dense and could give plenty of cover to snipers or worse. She decided not to mention it and filed it away in the back of her mind. As promised, pie crust was thawing on the counter.
“So.” He was rooting through the spice cabinet. Natasha toed off her boots and began to prep the tiny fireplace with logs. They might as well be comfortable while they were hashing out team politics. She held a match to some bunched up newspaper, pleased as it caught fire, engulfing the logs above it. “So?” she said, poking her head into the kitchen, watching with closely veiled amusement as he handled a bowl of freshly rinsed blueberries, his fingers leaving wet marks in a torn magazine recipe.
He caught her looking, setting the bowl down, lips pursed as he leaned against the stovetop. On anyone else, this expression could have been called pouting through and through, but she couldn’t help but find it endearing on him. Normally, she had no use for the painfully earnest but seemed to find herself surrounded by the type more and more. With someone like Steve, it could either be a blessing or an obstacle, his earnestness had evolved into a sort of moral badge that he had to keep in check, and she supposed she could never truly hold it against him. But Bruce wore his emotions like open wounds, likely against his own will, and she had always relied on that, to help protect him but also to soothe her own fears. The Hulk-related ones, specifically.
“Well, you’re certainly not stalking me on Fury’s orders anymore.” He said, dumping the blueberries into a saucepan. Her shoulders slumped. “Do I need orders to check in on you?” she asked, crossing her arms. “You flew the coop on Stark. It caught my attention.” He sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. She caught the faintest smudge of purple juice near his temple. “He didn’t send me. If you were going to ask that next.” She said calmly. He shook his head, picking up a measuring cup filled almost to the brim with an amber liquid. Stepping a bit closer, she caught the warm scent of maple syrup. “Things are different now, you know.” His eyes rose from their fixed point, hands robotically stirring the syrup into the blueberries. “Not much.” He concluded with a shrug.
She knew SHIELD’s collapse must have rattled him, but watching him move, finding old anxieties in every line and shadow of his face put a knot in her stomach. “They are.” She quietly insisted. Her posture softened and she plucked a stray blueberry from the bowl, inspecting it before popping it between her teeth. “I can’t actually blame you for ditching Stark, not really, not in my heart of hearts.” She said. “Being anywhere near his orbit is very involved.” He turned on the gas burner, and the smell of simmering blueberries and sugar filled the room. His posture softened a bit.
“It wasn’t that.” He said quietly, reading the recipe, or pretending to, it was difficult to tell. “No.” She said, watching him closely, almost refusing to do anything else. “You thought he might get hurt.” He didn’t respond, turning the blueberries over and over with the plastic spatula in a repetitive, calming motion. “Bruce…” He finally looked up.
“Tony has his own enemies, he doesn’t need mine too.”
She sighed audibly. This combination of pragmatism and pessimism, although technically pretty smart, was the kind of thing that would take years to undo without having a Hulk on your back. The painful part was how much she understood this, the way you could fear dragging all your demons everywhere you went. “I know it’s hard,” she began carefully. “But I think you need to start realizing that there are a few people who would get pretty offended if someone tried to hurt you.” He began stirring again, rhythmically, meditative, staring somewhere in-between the pot and the stove. The corners of his cheeks were pink, and she resisted the urge to reach her hand up and try and take away some of that heat and anxiety burning inside him.
“Even you?” It wasn’t unkind, the way he said it. A scowl pushed it’s way onto her features. “Especially me.” She said pointedly. “Whether you believe me or not, it’s always been my intention to help you.” Something within her tensed and threatened to snap. “I should leave.” That seemed to catch his attention.
“No-“
She was already wound. “Well, I didn’t come here for pie and a pity party.” Her hands rested on her hips, and she could tell Bruce was flustered, not that it was particularly hard to get him to that point. He was tired, too. Bruce seemed to wear fatigue like a second skin, and she guessed that the Hulk didn’t give him much quarter to rest, mentally or physically, but he looked as if he’d been whittled down since last she saw him. Pared to his sharper points. “You don’t have to leave.” She figured this could go on forever, she could try and get him to come home (“home”) and he could come up with a thousand good reasons not to, and it would never end.
There had to be a middle ground, she reasoned.
“They know everything about me, you know.” She shrugged, taking another blueberry from the bowl. “Everything. Down to dental records and internet browsing history.” That made him smile a bit. “I have lived a longer life than you think, and now it’s everyone’s business.” She caught his eyes falling to her lips and popped the second blueberry between her teeth. “I assume the same is true for you. Our files on you started day one.” My files, she thought. Nearly all of the observatory data on Bruce and the Hulk came from her, at least before she’d been pulled away towards Stark. “So yeah, a few old friends might turn up.” Her hand reached out delicately, and slowly, coming to rest on his shoulder. “But you won’t have to face them alone this time, okay?” She rubs gently against his shoulder blade, pleased when he doesn’t pull away. Even Bruce wasn’t immune to creature comforts. He had done well presenting himself as a very contained package- do not disturb, contents under pressure- but he was a man all the same.
A man missing someone, she reminded herself as she pulled away.
“You should stay.” He said, turning his head towards her. “If you want.” He worried his bottom lip before turning back to the syrupy sweet ink-black creation he’d made in the saucepan. She nodded resolutely. “I’ll take that crust out of the wrapper.” The minutes passed with a wonderful sort of ease that warmed her to the core. It was rare to see him relaxed like this, focused maybe, but not relaxed.
“So I have to ask, what’s with the pie?” she said, pinching the crust around the scalloped edges of the glass dish. She moved out of his way as he moved quickly with the steaming hot pan, spooning the contents open-faced into the crust. He made sure it spread evenly, and Natasha wondered were this came from. Was Betty a baker? Was it a remaining habit from childhood?
“Sometimes you just want things, you know?” That was the only answer she was likely to get.
The pie went into the oven and she wondered how to spend the next thirty minutes. In what seemed like an act of mercy, Bruce suddenly produced a few bottles of wine and she couldn’t have been more pleased. Red and white. He was no slouch. She settled into the couch next to him, crossed-legged, sipping on Washington’s finest pinot noir with a smile that suggested a cat who’d just laid eyes on a canary. It tasted like the dark and dirty earth, and she could have kissed him for it. Bruce was favoring an acid-dry gewurtztraminer. “Favoring” meant he was drinking like pending amputee staring at a doctor’s saw.
"Didn’t figure you for a drinker. For awhile, you seemed to be all about that clean living.” He smiled, setting his glass down.
“Alcohol is a natural depressant.” Her eyebrow quirked. “You were right to take a break from Tony, maybe.” He was grinning now, self-conscious but relaxed. “No, I just…meant that I don’t worry so much about some things any more.” He poured more wine into his glass, and topped off hers. “It’s a fine line, I know it is, but…”
“No.” She said quietly. “No one else knows your limits better than you. No one knows mine better than me, etc etc.” She reached forward, clinking his glass gently, nudging his knee with her foot. “Cheers.” She sat back with another sip. “You have good taste. You weren’t saving this, right?” Bruce laughed, tossing back more of his own. “Saving it for what?”
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An hour and one bottle later, Bruce was asleep in his corner, tightly pulled in until she moved and gently coaxed him into stretching out. She caught the oven timer before it could sound and wake him up, pulling the pie out and resting it on the stovetop. It smelled perfect, warm and tart and inviting. She was pleased on his behalf. Stealing a glass of water from the fridge, she watched the rise and fall of his chest, the flickers of his eyes. She reminded herself to get some water into him as soon as he woke up. Being wine-drunk could be euphoric, but the result was much less desirable.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she knew it only could have been one of a few numbers.
Barton: cells in berlin cleared out. coming home soon. so bored. what are you up to?
She smiled. Clint had gone overseas to help find any SHIELD agents whose covers had been blown by the leak. She would have gone herself, had fought and begged to go herself, but Fury had worried the mission might have become to “personal” for her. And for a few days, she hated him for that. Of course it was personal. The leak may have been agreed upon, but she’d swung the axe. She’d wanted to help them, to rescue them from whatever hell they were now finding themselves in. Fury told her not to go. That she would get lost in it, and she might not get out. That it wasn’t her fault. Clint took the mission for her, gladly and willingly. She knew he would spare her the worst details, but always shared their success stories. So many of them were coming home now. Whether or not they were still whole, that was left unanswered.
“Is it done?” she heard a faint slur from the living room. “Smells done.”
She texted back: right now? Babysitting.
“Yes.” She answered back, bringing a glass of water over to his side. “Drink this and go back to sleep.” He accepted, eyes shut against what she supposed was the earth spinning off of its axis. “I’m not very smart sometimes.” He said as he downed the glass. Smiling, she brushed his hair away from his forehead. “No. But I think we’ll both survive.” He turned towards her, glassy-eyed. “Why are you so nice to me?” With a sigh, she took one of his hands, fingertips tracing the lines of his veins. “I wasn’t…the way I acted before…” She shook her head. “That was before, okay? We both had a lot to be afraid of.” He nodded. “I’m-“ she squeezed his hand with a touch of sharpness.
“Don’t say sorry. You’re a good man. You know you are. I know you are.”
He accepted this, and settled back to sleep. Another phone buzz.
Which one? Stark, thunder thighs, old navy?
Looking down at Bruce, she brushed her knuckles against his cheek with a sigh. Oh, I’m in trouble. She reluctantly pulled her hands away from him, sliding off the couch.
First of all, I thought we agreed that ‘old navy’ was a terrible nickname.