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Chapter Text

The hardest part is over; She's survived the coronation. 

The crown is heavy on Natasha's head and the scepter's metal is cold in her hand. Crowds have gathered in celebration, cheering and wishing 'Princess Natalia Romanova' good health.

She's present enough to hear the words, sort of, in her red embroidered corseted gown tied snuggly at the waist before it meets a ballroom-style skirt of 6 layers. 

Nicholas Fury should be proud. His voice echoes in her memory;

"Wear the crown, keep the wolves out." 

She's managed to infiltrate, convince the people of Mashna she's long lost royalty, and secure the palace. 

Easy. And bloodless for one of her first big missions with S.H.I.E.LD

Ivan Dreykov trained her to do far worse than lie, hold control over a country's people, and wear pretty dresses. 

If Dreykov was the mastermind behind Russia's first attempt to infiltrate Mashna, then she hoped he was watching the broadcast tonight. Let him see her standing here, not as his weapon, but as a sovereign.

Phase One: Infiltrate. Convince. Secure. Complete.

Mashna might be small compared to its neighbors, but nothing rivaled the wealth buried under its soil. The tourists came for the cliffs and the coast. 

But the truth, what Fury wanted, lays deep beneath the hills: Isoform-8. Crystals so potent they powered everything from light to medicine, coveted by every power within a thousand miles. A single ounce could be traded for vibranium at priceless rates. It was. Frequently.

But Isoform-8 was more than currency. 

Mishandled, it could destabilize reactors, poison water supplies, flatten cities. That was why Russia wanted it.

Phase Two is Natasha's next step.

This would be harder; Become Queen. She will have to wear the crown for long enough that even the wolves believe it. 

The worst part is that she can play this part and do it well. 

Maybe a job well done will lighten the sting of completion. Of leaving the country in favor of her next assignment. 

Natasha lifts her chin as the cheers rise higher, her smile practiced and flawless. 

Her most trusted friend and fellow undercover agent spares a smirk from her side. Agent Clint Barton applauds with the crowd and squirms in the uniform she knows he detests.

"It's the damn Russians, I'm telling you. Once they get their hands on the crystals, it's over for us," General Thaddeus Ross says through a snarl, pausing only to bite down on his cigar.

His opposite hand stays buried in his pocket as he leans back on his heels, addressing the equally well-dressed younger man beside him. 

The palace steps gleamed under the lantern light, music drifting faintly through the doors into the night where Ross refuses to stop lecturing.

This was his third rant today containing a new variation of the same paranoia. He could've brought a soldier, even a seasoned spy. Instead, he dragged along Bruce Banner: scientist, physicist, seven PhDs, and usually forbidden to leave the bunker unless there was a bomb to build.

Bruce had no idea why he'd been chosen. Not when Ross hated his guts. Not when, no matter how many degrees he stacked, the General only ever saw a liability.

"They've already wormed their way into Mashna's banks," Ross snaps, smoke curling between his words. "Next comes the ore. You choke the supply, you choke Europe. And don't get me started on this so-called 'princess'. A Romanov suddenly appears? It's a shitty trap."

Bruce doesn't answer. He'd been staring at the marble columns instead, tracing the ornate grooves and admiring their symmetry until Ross's bark cuts through his thoughts.

"Are you listening to me, boy!"

Nope. Not a word.

Bruce jumps and fiddles with his tie. 

The General reviews the plan he's circled multiple times, "I got us into the palace for the next three weeks. I'm not leaving until I get my intel, Banner, and you're gonna get it for me. The girl is an operative. She'll expect a gun at her back, not a glass of wine and a dumb smile. Get her talking."

Bruce snorts, talking under his breath, "No strings you pull are getting me within ten feet of the princess."

"You're spineless. She'll expect a soldier. A spy. Not...you. Some harmless milksop with his books. You'll get closer than anyone in that marble prison."

Once, he'd been thrilled to be invited to work alongside the General. Being in the military 'opens doors', or, that's at least what Banner's Aunt Susan told him. Now, Bruce isn't entirely sure the General's paranoia hasn't crowded his capacity for logic. 

While Bruce sees the potential danger in the young Princess if she is a pawn, this could ultimately just be the latest of Ross's escapades.

"Flirt with her- I don't care.” Ross continues. "You're good at that; annoying the shit out of people with useless facts until they give you what you want so you'll shut up."

Bruce frowns but doesn't say a word. He doesn't flirt. He reads, analyzes, and drowns people...with useless facts- FINE. Fine. The General is right.

He barely understands when or why the General's daughter, Betty, found him so alluring in the first place.

But none of that matters; His personal opinion least of all. Banner is in Mashna to get details on Isoform-8. He wants to write his 300-page report on the ore and go home. It's an educational endeavor. That's what he tells himself. What he told Betty.

Assess the risks, get the details back to the General, and ensure the Princess holds no suspicion. And keep your job for the next ten years.

If he does his job fast, he could get back to his angry girlfriend. Get back to apologizing for whatever Betty is mad at him for this week. They can move on.

Chapter Text

Losing a few layers of tulle was Agent Laura Barton's brilliant idea. Her most trusted attendant snapped a few buttons so Natasha could move around the ballroom and entertain her guests. 

She can now dance, draw a knife if necessary, and escape boring conversations with ease. 

Natasha circles the royal figures first and thanks them for coming, briefly addressing future political conversation. 

A man catches her attention, swirling a glass of wine in his grasp when he politely greets her;

"Your Majesty."

Natasha looks him over, searching her mental catalog for his name; "If you've been sent by your boss, the answer is 'no'. My response to your request yesterday was also 'no', as will be the same tomorrow." 

"The technical capabilities-," he blushes, caught in his act as she immediately shoots him down with an elegant tone.

Sipping wine from her own glass, she holds her smirk, "Now is hardly the time to discuss trade with America. Trade at all, really."

"Indeed," General Ross says, clapping the other man on the shoulder, "This is a celebration, Captain Rhodes."

Natasha knows THAT man, thanks to her studies with Fury. 

"Can my scientist retrieve a fresh glass of wine for you, Princess Natalia?" Ross offers, gesturing behind him.

Scientist. A young man with barely manageable curls is studying a gold-trimmed vase.

"Please don't touch that," Natasha's composure slips.

But in her defense, his fingers shouldn't be near the relic.

If she is a Romanoff...A Romanova, that is a family heirloom.

The General slips with a snarl. It reveals his irritation and the leash he seems to have wrapped around the other man's throat.

"Sorry-sorry," the scientist fumbles nervously, steadying the table the vase is on.

He is looking between the General and then back at her as though he needs to be led, and his hands need purpose.

Natasha grinds her molars over his extended palm, grateful for her gloves. Whatever nervous hesitation he holds at his core, she wants none of it to taint her.

"Bruce, Bruce Banner," he offers his name.

Bruce has a whole file in Fury's office if she can recall correctly. He's brilliant. Innovative. And he's squandering his intellect serving this waste of space known as Thaddeus Ross.

While she pretends to be purely a princess, at her core, she values intelligence. 

"Natalia."

He knows who she is, everyone does. But offering her name in reply is the polite thing to do. 

And those eyes, that nervous smile...it's in contrast to everything she associates with the General. 

Thaddeus is still there, supervising. Talking.

"We are staying on palace property for the next few weeks," he says as though he's seen her glance, standing beside Bruce.

Banner's hand is calloused as though he spends every moment in a laboratory. It's warmer than it should be. 

The proximity makes her face heat. She wonders what has him running so warm, the heat pouring from off him as though he's an oversized blanket.

It's almost comforting.

She can't trust comfort. Comfort is taken away. The way Dreykov took away any semblance of family she had as a child.

It can't be trusted. Especially not when Thaddeus Ross is attached to it. He will blow it up in a bunker.

Natasha withdraws her hand from Bruce's with indifference in her tone, "I hope you find the accommodations satisfactory, Dr. Banner."

Bruce is nudged by the General.

He's a puppet and Natasha is initially suspicious of anything he does, anything he says, even of the air he breathes...

"If you'll excuse me," she curtsies, eager to move on from someone Fury gave her reason never to trust.

Thaddeus Ross is self-serving. He performs risky experiments. Anyone attached to him? She will avoid it like the plague. 

"It was nice meeting you," Bruce offers, innocently and of his own accord as the General turns away.

She almost regrets turning her shoulder up at him...almost...

His awkward smile lingers in her mind for longer than it should.

Later, Bruce is replaying his every action.

Idiot. He's an idiot in his thirties! He should be immune to a pretty smile. 

This isn't attraction. His chemicals are misfiring due to stress and he needs a realignment. Immediately.

He has a pretty smile back in New Mexico; Betty and he must miss her. The woman he wishes had no relation to the man who is screaming in their 'accommodations' because Bruce barely said two words to Princess Natalia.

Bruce has Thaddeus tuned out with his tie undone, sitting and chewing at his fingernails as he stares at the green painted walls. 

He hates the color green. 

But her eyes were green and he could never find it in his soul to hate them. So bright and kind...unlike any shade he's ever seen.

Natalia didn't flinch when Ross spoke. She held her own. 

"Banner!" Ross shouts. 

Bruce feels a jolt roll down his spine. Guilt overpowers the fear for staring too long at her silhouette in that red dress, at the red of her hair.

He shouldn't be thinking about her at all.

"...she turned down a representative for Stark," Ross says.

"She's magnetic," Bruce admits as he mulls over her commanding presence.

Ross stares back as his jaw works.

Bruce swallows the lump in his throat further down. If he's ever going to ask this man if he can marry Betty, he needs to get over that look;

"I only mean to say, the people love her. You saw how she handled tonight."

With absolute elegance. She's loved by all.

"Exploit it, Banner." Ross turns on his heel, "You've got three weeks to prove she's a fraud."

"And if she's not?"

"I want leverage and you can get it. No one suspects the nerd.”

Chapter Text

“The evening was a success, Princess.”

Natasha hates when Clint calls her ‘princess’ because it's a lying mockery of the title. 

Then again. She should be immune to lies by now.

As she wipes down a mirror with some glass-safe spray and a microfiber cloth, she bites back her usual retort, a request to call her ‘Nat’.

One of the benefits of ‘princessing’ is the adopted stray cat that roams through the palace and into the kitchen, stretching and meowing for food.

Clint is moving the newspaper out of the cat’s reach. 

“Let’s hear it,” she coaches.

Barton clears his throat and reads verbatim, “The people rejoice today over their radiant sovereign…”

Laura enters mid-monologue and clarifies her husband’s elegant words with profanity, “You didn't pass out in the damn corset.”

‘The people,’ ‘Royalty’, and ‘attendees’ suddenly have new nicknames as Clint reads on.

Natasha finds it amusing. They are invaders after all. A glamorized Trojan horse infiltrating a country.

Natasha swallows away any sudden guilt pooling at her core and dismisses it as a mission. 

That’s what this is after all. It’s fleeting—momentary admiration for a fake princess. 

She's had so many nightmares concerning the people’s response and yet it’s all been so…positive.

“Hey Nat,” Clint is laughing.

There it is. Finally. A lackluster comment.

“What?” Natasha asks, folding her towel.

“…the one thing absent in this fairytale,’ he reads, ‘is a happily ever after. The question remains; When will our princess find her prince?”

Natasha snorts over the ‘assault’.

Laura raises her eyebrows, “Seriously?”

Clint offers the paper to his wife, “Read it yourself.”

“That’s what they want to come at her for?” Laura reads, “…Will the future Queen find her consort…Geez. They have nothing better to write about.” 

Natasha lifts a shoulder, "It could be worse.”

Clint motions to zip his lips closed as Laura continues to whine.

“Options? Whose single?” Natasha asks casually.

Clint blinks as if he's been called to arms as her Captain of the guard and argues, “I never agreed to be your royal Tinder.”

Laura laughs loudly and turns to Natasha, “Are you serious?”

Natasha shrugs, eyes on a streak she missed, “My curiosity is purely professional.” 

“Maria holds that list hostage on a need-to-know basis. But.” Laura sinks into her hip as she counts on her fingers, “If I remember correctly we’ve engaged with most of them; Prince Philip, Princess Lileth, Prince Ivan…”

Natasha shudders at the name and scratches at a chip in the paint. Anything to distract herself from the name. Anything to distract her from the empty, cold-hearted menace who weaponized her.

The mental images begin to play on a loop as she works to distract herself with something warm.

Her mind betrays her with a memory of a gentle hand and the way heat poured off of that one man at the ball. That unbidden stray curl tumbling over his brown eyes that wavered due to anxiety.

Natasha rolls her shoulders back in a self-scolding. Since when has she cared about curls?

“Wait,” Clint is pinching the bridge of his nose when he asks Laura, still in the middle of their own conversation, “If he’s ineligible, why is he on the eligible list?”

They're arguing over a Prince from Italy.

Laura shrugs, “I’d have to stop inviting him to the parties. And I just love to look at him.”

Clint sideeyes his wife.

Natasha doesn’t need a cliché fairytale ending. But something in her core translates as envy over the sight of her friends. 

Natasha wants that ordinary, messy, unattainable magic. The sort of thing that can't be faked even on a mission. 

“By royal decree,’ Natasha wrinkles her nose over their kiss, ‘I banish PDA.”

Laura glowers, "Overruled."

She kisses him again.

Natasha continues to clean the large glass mirror in front of her. With more force this time as if she can scrub any impurity from who is staring back at her, threatening to reveal the woman behind the mask.

“You know Ross is eating this up,” Clint flicks the paper.

“The General needs to get off our backs,” Laura adds, “What is he doing here?”

“Waiting for her misstep. Nothing good comes out of Ross hovering,” he sighs, “I’ll tip off Fury. And offer to hang the General by his toes in the courtyard.”

“That works for me,” Natasha says.

“He’s here with that scientist,” Laura taps her chin.

“Yeah. Banner. Ross’s pet physicist,” Clint answers, “I bet they're here for the crystals.”

“Who isn't?”

“It doesn't matter,” Natasha pivots, “This is nothing I can't handle.”

She should feed the cat some breakfast before the people arrive. 

Before the complaints and requests start pouring in at the meeting hall.

Chapter Text

 In its raw state, the crystal appears translucent with faint iridescence, but under pressure, it resonates at frequencies exceeding 32 terahertz. This resonance produces extraordinary amounts of kinetic energy.

Laboratory trials show Isoform-8 amplifies cellular repair when introduced in trace micrograms, leading to accelerated tissue regeneration.

However, quantities over 9 grams destabilize into a catastrophic chain reaction-

“Find something interesting, Dr. Banner?”

Bruce stops his finger from where it had been underlining in the book. He blinks and removes his glasses, only then realizing he’d been mouthing the words to himself in the vast library. 

Princess Natalia is dressed casually this morning, leaning against a marble post with one ankle crossed, arms folded loosely in front of her. She watches him with those sharp, green, scrutinizing eyes.

Bruce suddenly feels like he's the one being read rather than the one doing the reading.

This playing field is uneven.

“Interesting makes it sound personal, Princess,” he clears his throat. 

“My friends call me ‘Nat’, Dr. Banner.”

“Is that an invitation? It sounds like a trap.”

She pushes off the column with calculated steps of menacing equal distance. 

“Does the General always send you searching for explosives?”

Bruce taps the page as if it might defend him, “Medicine. Cellular repair. Healing, not hurting.”

“Don’t patronize me.”

He softens, flinching. “I uh. That wasn’t my intention.”

Her gaze flicks briefly over his bare forearms before shifting to the shelves.

A red-painted fingernail taps along spines until she finds what she wants. She lays the book neatly over his open text.

“Eight Cases for Isoform,” she reads. “Medical Observation by Dr. Agatha Marks.”

Another two follow. Bruce nearly drops the stack. 

“That should keep you busy,” Natalia smirks, unhurried as she turns to leave

Bruce hesitates following after her until he remembers Ross and the storm waiting for him if he returns empty-handed.

He needs to annoy her with facts until she loosens her tongue, “The problem with a lot of this research is that it dates back to the Cold War. Half of it is biased, but sure, we can pretend it's peer-reviewed.”

Her stride doesn’t break as he follows, but he catches a lift of her eyebrow when she says;

“I take that personally.”

“You are a Romanova.”

She pauses, not quite frowning. He might feel better if she did. Maybe he’s pushed too far.

“And you’re Ross’s chosen pawn,” Natalia says with a sly upturned grin. 

She’s cataloging her own assumptions. It’s insulting.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he trails her.

Natalia embarks up one side of the sweeping white staircase, her hand grazing the banister like she owns every inch of marble.

Bruce starts up the opposite side.

“It means you’ll be sacrificed for the sake of the match.”

"Or, err, promoted," he adds awkwardly, nearly dropping the books.

Natalia rolls her eyes, but the faintest smirk ghosts her mouth as their paths arc closer to the top. 

“Do all of your dreams and ambitions end at an army base?” 

“Do yours stop at a crown?”

“Mashna is my home.”

“I thought you were Russian?”

“I was,” she looks forward, “You’re out of your element.”

At the top, they meet on the balcony overlooking the marble floor below. Natalia slides forward with poised elegance, close enough to brush his collar into place.

“Do yourself a favor, Dr. Banner,” she says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Stay in the library. Books can’t hurt you.”

Bruce’s breath catches over her invasion of his space.

The reply comes out rougher than intended, “Don’t patronize me.”

She swings her hair over her shoulder and wiggles her fingers in a dismissive wave, disappearing around the corner.

The silence breaks with a clatter as the books slip from his arms, scattering across the marble floor in a ruffle of pages.

“Brilliant, Banner,” he mutters to himself, “Real smooth.”

Bruce finds himself pausing in his book cleanup, and he bites his cheek.

He frowns in the direction Natalia disappeared toward and his eyes narrow in suspicion. 

Russian. Romanova.

The dates didn’t add up, not with the little he’s read on Mashna’s timeline.

She’s too young, it’s too clean, and she’s too smooth. 

‘Stay in the library’, she’d said. Fine. He would.

But not with the books she wanted him to read. 

Chapter Text

“I know my way around a dagger, Maria,” Natasha fakes a yawn to smother the knot in her chest.

“Yes, but you should continue training with Mashna’s,” says the woman, disguised to match the other members of Clint’s security unit.

Natasha's blades are refined with Isoform-8 and custom red handles. She likes the crystals better when they're lantern fixtures or jewelry pieces. 

“Try it again,” Maria says as she sips from her canteen.

Natasha exhales, circles the stuffed dummy, and repeats the motion. This time, the blade sinks cleanly through the burlap chest, right where the heart should be.

“Can I interrupt?” Laura appears at the doorway with a pint of ice cream and a clipboard.

Maria sighs, “Shoes and table decorations can wait.”

Laura looks at her spoon as if preparing to kill someone with it. “This can't.” 

Natasha swings the dagger in her palm, testing its weight.

“Ross’s pet was caught in the library,” Laura says.

“I know. I gave him homework.”

“Genealogy? Weapons?” Laura’s tone sharpens. 

“Medicine. He’s a dork.”

“The librarian caught him climbing the shelves. You know, the publications were roped off for a reason? Blocking would’ve raised suspicion, so we let him walk out with it.”

Natasha swings the dagger and circles while she considers her next move.

“Cut him down,” Maria suggests in the pause.

“And risk pissing off Ross?” Laura questions.

“Ross is always pissed off. Banner is unknown.”

“His loyalty is transactional,” Natasha cuts in. “Misdirect. Keep him close. That’s why they're here, right? For them to slip up under our noses.”

Laura whistles, “Careful. Keeping a young man at your side will stir up consort rumors.”

“Then it's a good thing gossip is your specialty.” Natasha winks.

“My hands are full. Clint’s hiding Ross from the tabloids and keeps frying their cameras. Ross is loud, Nat.”

“Then shut him down. Reframe the narrative.”

Maria nods at the thought, “I’ll handle the gossip column and get a draft out first thing tomorrow.”

Laura turns to Natasha, “We’ve got the General. Handle the ‘dork’.”

Natasha twirls the blades in her grasp, and they hum.

Mission received. 

Bruce would've slammed the door if he knew the sound wouldn't make him jump, and the General wouldn't fire him on the spot. 

‘Isoform-8 is above your pay grade, stick to lab rats.’

That one stung. Betty’s voicemail carried the same disappointed edge. And for what? Natalia cut him off at the knees.

Bruce continues to mull over the day. There’s an urge to barge back inside and call the General’s army of analysts ‘subpar morons. ’ But that would be suicide, not catharsis. 

A whistled song drifts through the open hall, and Bruce wants to strangle its source immediately. 

Seeing that it's Natalia, royalty is enough reason not to. Along with the maids and assistants, she gathered around her.

The princess is pulling strands of thick twine around glass vases. 

Bruce wants to smash them and then rip the petals apart to release the tension in his core.

Natalia waves over her shoulder with that pretty smile. He grins at the source of his migraine, lifts a hand, and then turns toward his room.

They can play their games. 

Mashna has a spy on a throne made of kinetic energy. Someone’s placed her there, and remains the biggest unknown threat. 

Chapter Text

Natasha would prefer daggers to ‘the art of the fan’, but it’s part of the job. 

Laura is trying her best to remain humorous despite the boredom, which isn't helping Natasha’s urge to make faces behind her fan and add to the jokes.

Feeling this relaxed mid-mission is new. This is something Dreykov never would have permitted in the Red Room.

“We are working hard today,” Clint says, adjusting his leather jacket.

Laura slaps her fan shut and waves it in his direction, “You should be out monitoring the palace.”

“I was. Ma’am,” he bites back. 

“Don’t ma’am me.”

Natasha rolls her eyes from behind her fan. She snorts over Laura’s gasp and Clint’s peck on her cheek, crossing her arms to watch the couple circle each other. 

Clint then takes Laura’s hand and spins her under his arm. She settles in response, turning herself out in an 8-second dance that is too rehearsed for spontaneity.

Natasha claps silently in amusement. 

While resting her fan on a marble table, Natasha pauses when she spots Bruce leaning against a column down the wide corridor. 

Her eyes narrow with scrutiny. The scientist’s arms are crossed with a suave she knows he doesn't possess. The book in his hand and those waves in his hair mock innocence. 

Her hand grips the table's ledge as she collects her thoughts and then lifts her eyes, ready for battle. She's supposed to spy on him. Not the other way around.

Bruce casually looks up from his book with a slight smirk and waves, pretending only now to notice her. 

He seems to know exactly what he is doing, which is debatable. Or maybe Natasha underestimated him entirely. 

“What is it?” Clint attentively moves to her side.

Laura checks her fingernails, “A suitor?”

Natasha suddenly has the urge to smack Laura with her fan. 

Romanoff steps forward without the approval or further discussion with her mentors.

“Are you lost?” She keeps her steps casual as she moves to meet him.

Bruce meets her halfway and lifts his chin, “Your watchdog doesn't like us chatting?”

Natasha addresses Clint with an expression she hopes will convey ‘go away’.

Laura grips Clint’s arm and pulls him back.

“And he's got a handler. Must be his wife,” Bruce seems to wince, “Oof. Poor choice of words.”

If Bruce only knew what Clint and his ‘handler’ were capable of. 

“Careful, Doctor,’ Natasha says, ‘my watchdog’s bite is bigger than his bark.”

“Me too,” he lifts his book.

She bristles upon noting the contents don't match. There’s a map inside the book that Bruce has butchered like some giddy schoolboy.

“Have you ever visited the Paris of the East?” he asks casually, tapping the highlighted portion. “Budapest?”

Her jaw tightens, but she smirks, shaking her head.

“No, huh?” He shows her more of the map, then slips into French and Latin, pressing her about the KGB and who she works for. 

He asks if her inheritance includes Isoform-8 mines and why on Earth she’d have some of this printed this morning if not for his sake.

The rest gets muffled. 

Natasha’s vision swarms as she fully controls the conversation and responds physically.

In a few beats of layered rotations thanks to ballet class, Bruce is shoved, and they're locked in a nearby closet.

When the light snaps on, the book is gone, and his eyes are wide.

Natasha tilts her head, “Listen carefully. News travels fast. Every lie about me has a source; you don’t want to be one.”

Bruce mirrors her and tilts his head, “Are you threatening me?”

“I’m suggesting that you ask me privately if you have a question.”

“Because you'll be transparent? That’s funny. I’ll pass.”

Her eyes close momentarily, “Dr. Banner.”

“Bruce.”

“I am who I say I am. Yes, I speak 10 languages. Of course, I have been to Russia.”

“Which of your 12 names is on your passport?”

“So asks the man who doesn't go by his first name.”

He nearly laughs, crossing his arms as if it’ll create a physical shield, “What else have you sniffed out about me?”

“It’s palace protocol. Blame the ‘watchdog’.”

“Who do you answer to?”

“Not you.” 

“Deflection won’t stop me from digging. You can keep controlling what’s printed, but that's still lying,” he hums, and her eyes roll.

“I'm not your enemy,’ she decides to share through gritted teeth, ‘the lion you entered with and feed information to could be. I’ve seen what people like him can do to people like us.”

Natasha wonders if he's seen the momentary crack in her armor. Her face feels warm, and his eyes soften, unsettling her. 

She immediately withdraws, “Do what you want with my warning. It’s your funeral.”

His expression is cold, contrasting with the heat radiating from him, “You’re, convincing…when you lie. Who trained you in the art of deception?”

She’s done with him. 

Natasha reaches for the door handle. “Wait five minutes after I leave before exiting.”

He closes the distance and lays a hand over hers, “You’ll leave me locked in here. Or shut the lights and stab me.”

Natasha notes his hand placement. But he quickly withdraws it over her attention.

She curses under her breath and violently tugs the door open.

Bruce catches it, “If that elbow swing was meant for me, you missed. The door probably suffered a concussion, though.” 

Clint stands there to meet them with a raised eyebrow. 

Natasha brushes past him without a word. 

“What happened?” Clint whispers as he follows her.

Natasha’s fists clench and unclench at her sides as she heads down the corridor to search for the map. By the time she considers looking for Bruce, she’s lost both.

“Nat?” Clint asks as she pauses.

She shakes her head, lips pressed tight. Admitting she’s been outsmarted won’t look good on her record. 

Clint silently studies her, “He got something, didn’t he?”  

Natasha refuses to answer. 

Chapter Text

“The job isn’t difficult! You have to open the door before the passenger dies of old age!” Ross barks to the man at the side of his limo.

Bruce saves his eye roll as he trails behind him up the staircases and past the guards toward the palace doors.

They’d been out today, digging further in Bruce’s metaphorical bomb drop. Ross had found it appealing enough to consult his team on the outskirts for further proof of a Red Room full of spies no one could find.

“Welcome back,” a stoic man steps forward in black and in sunglasses.

“Your staff is unreliable and incompetent,” Ross blows smoke in his face, toying with his cigar. 

Bruce grimaces and continues inside, where the General confronts Natalia’s ‘guard dog’ and ‘handler/wife’.

“You have a spy on the throne. She’s not who she says she is,” the General immediately begins his accusations.

Natalia whips her head and narrows her gaze on the General, as though Bruce isn’t in the room.

“Do you have proof, General Ross?” The head of security answers.

“Yes!” He reaches into his breast pocket and throws papers onto the floor individually, “Her multiple identities tell me you’ve done this before.”

“Congratulations. You can Google,” the woman at the security officer’s side deadpans.

“Her DNA was tested and confirmed,” the man answers.

“That means shit in Mashna!” Ross snapped. “Who are you working for, and what does he want with Isoform-8?”

“General,” Natalia stepped forward, “That means everything to my people. I understand your concerns.”

Bruce wished she hadn’t looked at him when she said it. The disapproval in her eyes churned his stomach. If he was wrong, this was on him.

“Do you?” Ross snarled.

“Yes,” Natalia nodded, tone calm and absolute. “Mashna is in safe, honorable hands. I can see how much you care, and that’s admirable. But I assure you, my goal is to continue Mashna’s long history of peaceful resolution in conflict.”

Bruce watches as the army General’s smoke curls in the air. If she isn't being honest, they're in a war now. 

“I want to increase our wealth and supply. This is not a personal venture,’ Natalia says, ‘it’s necessary.”

Ross’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Pretty words. They might fool your people, but I know what you are.”

Her expression drops just enough for Bruce to feel sick. He thinks he might puke right there on the polished tile.

Then she hums, calm and deadly. “Then be careful not to offend me. I know you seek trade with America. If I believe you are a threat, I will ensure such discussions remain tabled indefinitely.”

Ross bristles, nearly choking on smoke. “Natalia—!”

“If you’ll excuse me.” She dips her head and sweeps past, shoulder catching Bruce’s with just enough force to pin her heel on his shoe.

“I am so sorry,” she whirls with a sharp smile before continuing her exit.

Bruce watches her go, more attentive to her departure than the throbbing in his toes.

For the first time, Ross looked smaller.

“I will personally find some ice for that foot,” the woman with her hair in a slick bun offers before disappearing. 

“I would avoid causing distress to our Princess.” The security guard steps forward as the woman beside him rushes off to meet Natalia, “I have diplomatic immunity in forty-nine countries.”

“You’re one of them,” Ross exhales, “An infiltrated rodent.”

His jaw sets with a tone as cold as steel, “If you hurt my girl, I will show you exactly why I was chosen as the royal guard.”

Maria Hill is in the freezer, slowly scooping one ice cube at a time while Natasha eats away her frustrations. 

“What happened?” Laura asks as she circles the room.

“I stomped on his foot,” Natasha says in between bites. 

Laura pauses, “As your mentor, I cannot condone it. But as your friend-.”

“Laura,” Clint frowns as he arrives.

“What did we miss?” Maria asks.

Clint winks in Natasha’s direction and reaches to steal a chip from her bag. She smirks in reply. 

Chapter Text

"I didn't mean to leave things the way I did, Betty."

Natasha can't help but loop the garden over his voice. 

Bruce is standing by a fountain, fiddling with white roses, his phone glued to his ear.

There's a sad longing in his tone as he ends his voicemail. 

"We can talk about everything when I get back, if you want..." he says, removing the phone from his ear.

When she approaches, Natasha clasps her hands behind her back, noting his slumped shoulders and vacant expression.

"So, he does have a soul," she comments, viewing his side profile under an arch of strangling vines and purple lavender. 

Bruce turns to face her, nearly knocking over a garden gnome. 

He looks flustered as he tugs at his dark curls and tries to muster confidence, "Take your big feet and stomp elsewhere."

Natasha shakes her head over his words, "I'm sorry, my 'big feet'?"

"You heard me," he says as he walks away.

She follows, "Try my big feet on for a day, Bruce. Try running a country." 

"I'm sure it's exhausting, Natalia,' he pivots dramatically to face her, 'putting in your little show. Here's the thing, Princess, you lose nothing. When the country collapses and takes everyone else down, you'll be sitting pretty."

Natasha grits her teeth, "I told you to stay out of it."

"I don't take orders from anyone."

"Don't lie to yourself."

"You know what, stay away from me."

"You'll stay away from me." 

Bruce laughs and bows with a flourishing gesture, "Yes, your majesty."

A sprinkler goes off, startling and spraying him in the face.

She covers her mouth to laugh—until another sprinkler goes off at her feet and soaks her favorite pair of sneakers.

They glare at each other and leave the garden in opposite directions.

A ball of a smaller size takes place later that night at the palace. 

Natasha arrives prepared. She's dressed in a simpler light purple gown, and her hair is pinned up with modest crystals. She circles the primary political figures and easily appears personal in her conversations. 

Of course, Clint is always two steps behind, should she need assistance. 

When Natasha spots Bruce in the corner quietly sipping from his glass, she smiles sarcastically and pivots the other way. 

To her dismay, it doesn't stop him from trailing her.

She wants to drag her nails down that glass in an unrelenting squeal when he lifts it in her direction, trying and failing to blend with the shadows. She wants him to fear her enough to take a big step back. 

Natasha exhales with relief when Maria calls everyone to the table and the diplomats take their places. She needs a glass of wine or a whole bottle, but something more substantial must wait.

Seated at the opposite end is Thaddeus. And the General's silence is somehow more unnerving than his jabs.

Chapter Text

Bruce keeps his water glass in hand as everyone takes their places at the table. The sheer number of people in attendance merits searching for the nearest exit. 

Bruce is starving, so he tolerates the crowd. But the meal served is not vegan-friendly, which is his last straw. He wonders if it would be treasonous to ask for a salad.

Ross is already bristling after the first toast to the people of Mashna. His cigar is gone, but his voice still carries smoke when he leans forward, eyes locked on the woman at the head of the table.

“Funny thing,’ he clears his throat as he shakes out his napkin, ‘where I come from, we call it stolen valor when someone parades in medals they didn't bleed for. A crown is no different, Princess Natalia.”

A ripple moves across the table. Knives pause mid-cut.

A slight smirk spreads over her red lips as she tightly grips the glass beside her plate. 

“If you are insinuating I haven't bled enough, my sparring mistress drew some just this morning in the ring.”

Those at the table laugh lightly as Natalia sips from her glass, and the woman a few seats down admits to her sword skills. ‘Maria’ is her name.

Bruce chokes down his own sip of water, politely refusing champagne for personal reasons.

“What would a pampered princess need with a sword? Let the men fight,” Ross pushes.

Natalia reveals nothing. But Bruce catches a small tremble as she lowers her glass and folds her hands;

“General, here in Mashna, there are blades, traditionally worn and given to royalty at their coronation. As is customary, I received mine and train with them on occasion. I won't be the leader who hides in a bunker while others fight for me.”

The General chews his latest bite, “Do you talk down to all your guests?”

“I was simply sharing culture as you seem to have taken such a keen interest in Mashna’s royal policies.”

Thaddeus clears his throat but then seems to scan the table as he swallows his retort.

Checkmate. Bruce can't help but find her intelligent retort amusing. Based on the hum to his left, everyone at the table agrees. 

A fork clanks against a plate to his right as if it’s the final mic drop.

“To the Princess Natalia Romanova,” her security guard raises his glass and proposes a second toast. 

As all attendees nod in agreement, Ross grumbles under his breath and refuses to participate.

The rest of dinner blurs; Polite laughter, crystal glasses clinking, the rustle of silk, and too much talking. 

Bruce can’t shake the image of her fingers trembling around the stem of her glass. For all her flawless composure, that tiny slip plays on loop.

As the guests begin to disperse for more liquor, he catches a flash of lavender silk slipping through one of the side doors. 

Bruce initially hesitates, setting his water glass down with a sigh. His feet betray him, and he follows her before his brain can talk him out of it.

Natasha frees her red waves of hairpins, releasing the tension built up from the braided crown circling the crystal one on top of her head.

She’s hardly aware of her cat purring at her heels as she stands on the balcony in the night air. 

Her feet blister in the heels like they used to back in the Red Room: When she’d push up to her toes and hold her balance, find her core, and demonstrate complete control in Madam B’s ballet class.

Natasha closes her eyes. She can't breathe.

The General has shaken her, rattled where it hurts her the most in front of other diplomats. If he only knew the lengths she’s going to keep Russia away from Mashna. How much she’s bled.

If Fury is half the strategist Ivan is, they are only two steps ahead. Now is not the time for doubt and questioning whether or not she belongs with S.H.I.E.L.D.  

She has no other identity. She has nothing but this job.

When wiping her face, Natasha finds her cheeks are damp.

“You should’ve locked the door behind you.”

Her head lifts over Bruce’s voice, startled that she’s been followed. 

“What do you want?” She clips and refuses to turn around.

“You have Ross grinding his molars to dust. One more jab and you’ll have him flipping the entire chessboard.”

“-I don’t need this from you,” her head turns, “Not tonight.”

His eyes soften, and it makes her insides somersault. 

Bruce takes a tentative step forward as his hands fall from his pockets, “Nat.”

Hearing her nickname feels as warm as the hand that grips and then quickly releases her arm.

“It’s not personal,” he murmurs.

His throat bobs, and her eyes shift onto his lips.

“It’s always personal.” She mumbles through her teeth, “But just this once, let me unravel without an audience.”

Bootsteps scrape across stone, and Clint’s shadow cuts through the doorway.

“Princess?” His voice is sharp, more of a warning than a question. His eyes narrow at the space between them.

Banner steps back immediately, shame pulling his shoulders down.

Natasha tilts her head to swing her hair to one side as she focuses on the floor. 

“I’m fine, Clint. Thank you.” She wipes her nose with the back of her wrist and walks toward Clint with a nod, calling her cat to follow with a tap at her side.

Natasha is up for most of the night. 

The next morning, she sees a scrappy bundle of uneven lavender stems at her door, which tells her the faint knock she thought she imagined at 3 a.m. was real after all.

Lifting the small bundle, she reads the torn paper tag, which has a horrid scrawl on it: ‘Sorry. ’

It’s clunky, which gives her gift-giver’s identity away. Natasha bites the corner of her mouth and glances down the hall, knowing she won’t find the scientist. 

The door shuts. The stems land on the table.

Natasha tells herself she has whole plants in the garden; she doesn’t need pity blooms. 

But her hands decide otherwise. Pens scatter when she reaches for a nearby jar and fills it at the sink. 

Chapter Text

The lavender stems are still fresh on her table when the week barrels into her. It’s full of public, forward-facing events in rapid succession. 

There’s a parade, visits to community centers. By Thursday, the photo splashed across the newspaper front page makes her pause. Ross is a caricature.

“They could’ve made his nose bigger,” Laura deadpans over her shoulder.

Natasha exhales. She shuts the paper, refusing to let Ross drown her one day off.

“Have they extended their trip?” Laura asks Clint, who shrugs.

Natasha lifts her eyebrows at him, then moves to feed the cat purring at her heels.

“Fury is pleased with the report. However,” Maria says once the large French Doors slam shut behind her. “He’s sending Coulson over. For an extra pair of eyes.”

The kitchen is still.

Natasha scoffs, “I don’t need another babysitter.”

“It’s not for you. Fury is worried about Ross. And about Banner.”

Laura spits her coffee into the sink with a laugh.

“What’s funny?”

“Banner,” Laura wipes her chin, “Why the hell would he be a threat? He's gone quiet.”

“He’s been at every event,” Clint stares at his mug. 

“Which is fueling the fire,” Maria drops a magazine onto the table.

Laura gasps, opening it immediately.

Natasha’s eyes widen over the damning cover photo of her and Bruce drenched in the garden. Their heads are tilted as they laugh.

Her pulse jumps. She knows she wasn’t laughing with him; she was angry but somehow missed how his chuckle threaded through hers.

“Cute,” Laura’s eyes lock on Natasha.

“What? No.” Natasha’s shoulder lifts, heat climbing her neck. “I was mad at him. If I’d seen the camera, I would’ve demanded the photographer delete the files.”

“He set you up?” Maria’s tone is cold.

“No. He wouldn’t,” Natasha mutters at his defense without thinking. 

Her mind flashes to the voicemail he left for Betty. That was private, or so they must have thought.

Clint’s eyes narrow as though he has something to ask, and then he thinks better of it. Natasha knows his mind has gone to the ball, catching them on the balcony.

“Coulson will be here tonight.” Maria says, “I suggest we get our stories in order and wrangle our guests into submission.”

“Is it so bad?” With an elbow propped on the table, Laura asks, “If anything, it humanizes Nat.”

Clint snorts, “Are you sick?”

“Is Mashna’s sweetheart falling for the foreign scientist…,” she flips the magazine and extends her lower lip, “From the public’s perspective, they make a cute couple.”

Natasha snatches the magazine and throws it into the trash.

Maria crosses her arms, “Laura’s not wrong. It’s the best way to handle this. The press handled the grunt work; we need to lean into it.”

“Now I’m supposed to pretend to like this guy,” Natasha circles the kitchen like a caged animal available for viewing, “-while Coulson trails behind me to supervise every flirtatious conversation? Kiss him in front of the cameras. You’re serious?”

Maria nods. Laura coughs. Clint groans into his cup. 

Natasha throws her head back with an icy laugh and a Russian swear.

Humiliating. 

She abandons her ‘friends’, slamming the door behind her as she exits, hugging her arms tightly around herself. 

Mr. ‘I wear my sunglasses at night’ has issues when Clint looks cooler than he does.

Natasha is upside down on the sofa, her feet propped, as Coulson and Barton argue over optics and the best way to force proximity.

Laura sits in the chair beside the sofa.

“I don’t want to do this,” Natasha mumbles, only loud enough for Laura to hear.

Something breaks on the agent’s face as she reaches for Natasha’s shoulder to squeeze it, “If you’re uncomfortable, speak up.”

“No, it,’ she sits up, running a hand through her hair, ‘I mean. He’s unsuspecting. He has a girlfriend.”

“None of this is real,” Laura says, so sweetly, “Don’t do anything damning and you'll both walk away without scars.”

Natasha nods. It should be more reassuring than it feels. 

“If you want my advice,” Coulson starts unzipping a portfolio.

“No,” Clint answers, his elbows over his knees.

Laura sharply says her husband’s name in a scolding tone. 

“Plan a real vacation when this is over. Lay on the beach and decompress, Agent Romanoff. Here’s the deal;” Coulson pushes through, unbothered, “You have eight days to be a wrecking ball before I ship Banner back to New Mexico. Keep him busy for eight days, that's it. How does that sound?”

“12. I need 12 days,” Natasha clips.

“Good. Sell it. And when it’s over, lose some convincing tears at the airfield. The press will love that. It’ll give us enough cover while we get the Russians off the border. Now, about those crystals…”

Laura might be patting her arm still, but Natasha went numb ten minutes ago.

Chapter Text

Ross rages over his caricature to two men seated stiffly beside him.

“You never looked better,” Bruce mutters into his mug of lavender tea, a palace blend.

“Speak up, Banner! Use your damn words,” Ross barks, spit catching in his teeth.

One of the bulky henchmen coughs into his fist, but the muffled snicker slips through anyway.

Bruce only shakes his head, a smirk plastered across his face as he turns another page of the paper. 

According to the column, the General is the bad guy. The one harassing ‘poor, sweet, innocent Princess Natalia’. For once, Bruce thinks, he’s not the monster.

Through the large white-framed window of the guesthouse, he spots Natalia among the white roses. She moves slowly along the path, gloved hands trimming stems with a precision that looks like control, but he knows better.  

“What are you staring at?” Ross huffs, the words catching, then dying when he follows Bruce’s gaze.  

Bruce sets aside his tea and paper. Without another word, he’s outside to meet her.

Natalia’s eyes flick toward him as she pauses deliberately. It’s so obviously calculated, but he steps closer anyway. 

“No gown today?” he asks.

Her head tilts, red hair spilling over one shoulder. “Are you stalking me, Dr. Banner?” 

“You’ve been busy,” he mutters, inhaling the scents of peonies, roses and lilacs. 

She hums, standing straighter as she tugs at her gloves. “Part of the job.”  

“The orphans…was that you? Or…”

There's a new care facility funded by royalty, one Ross dubs a political maneuver.

“Yeah. It was me,” she answers quickly.

He bites the inside of his cheek at her quick answer, and wonders if her reasons are personal. She doesn’t seem willing to elaborate, so he won't ask. It all but confirms it to be a ‘yes’.

“You look a little lighter. Emotionally, I mean. Since the ball.”

Her throat works around a swallow and then out toward the vegetables as though she's looking for someone…Or an exit. 

Then thinks better of it. 

“Thank you,’ she says softer than usual, ‘for the flowers.” 

“You’re welcome.”

Natalia looks down at her now exposed forefinger, clipping at it with her fingernails. 

“Thorns?” He asks.

She nods, “Yeah. Must've gone through the glove.”

“Can I?”

“Can you what?” Her green eyes are captivating.

He nearly blushes under their scrutiny. “Can I look at it? I have medical experience-.”

Her hand is in his before he can ask again. Her soft skin and long fingers conflict with calluses and minor scars. 

Bruce dismisses it all for blade practice. She’s not someone who sits back and leaves chores for her staff. She likes to be in the middle of everything.

The glasses in his pocket find their way onto his face as he looks closer at her fingertip.

“Ow.” She jumps as his clumsy fingers pull the thorn.

“Sorry,” he hesitantly frees her, “Got it.”

Natalia cradles her hand in her other, thumb brushing her palm.

He finds her eyes again and grins awkwardly, “Be careful with these roses. Beautiful, but underneath they're all thorns.”

She tilts her head, then immediately shuts down.

When his mouth closes, she crouches suddenly, scooping up her clippers and the cut roses.  

“I have to go. Meetings,” Natalia says. 

“Good luck,” Bruce offers in a low voice. 

She gives him the simplest nod and smile.

Bruce toys with the thorn between his fingers as she retreats. 

He's hesitant to drop it, should her cat wander, and someone else gets poked. He pockets it instead, scanning the path to ensure it’s safe the next time she comes out this way.

Ross is waiting for him when he returns, holding Banner’s abandoned tea mug as he looks down his nose at him;

“She ran from you. Do better.”

Bruce tries not to sigh as it's shoved into his chest, tea splashing over his clean button-down as he’s pulled back into politics.

Natasha shuts the palace door behind her, presses her back against the wood, and squeezes her eyes closed.

That was her moment. And she threw it away.

She should've grabbed Banner's collar and tested how close she could get, been the wrecking ball Coulson needs. 

“Keeping your hands busy?”

Her head snaps up. Clint’s leaning against the frame, arms crossed. He’s always watching.

She exhales hard. “Mind your own hands.”

His hands were so warm when he pulled the thorn. She hates him for it. 

“Where’s Laura?” Natasha asks.

“Good morning to you, too,” Clint huffs.

She digs in her pocket, pulls out the garden gloves, and tosses them onto a table for staff to collect. 

“Drawing room,” Clint says, tone lighter now. “She’s mocking up ballroom plans. Ready to teach you how to dance without stepping on people’s feet.”

Natasha snorts. “But Barton, how else would one dominate the floor? Crushed toes are necessary.”

“This is why we get along.” His expression softens, “You need anything? Something to punch?”

Bruce Banner.

“Nope.” She says it too quickly, shutting the door before he can read more than she's offering.

The reason for her inner conflict feels too personal. She can't hand him this, even if he’s one of her closest friends. 

Natasha glances at her top, smeared with dirt from the garden. 

She needs to pull herself together and remember she has a few thorns of her own. 

Chapter Text

Someone else.

Anyone else.

Hell, she'd behave around Prince Ivan. She’d humanize herself.

Natasha sweeps through folders of suitors, wondering how complicated it would be to get one of them here and photographed at her side to dispel rumors of her and the scientist. 

“Planning out your dance partners?” Bruce asks as he enters the office with its large windows.

Natasha grits her teeth. She needs to stop leaving doors open. Especially those he has access to.

“Why aren't you in the library?” she asks sharply and closes the binders of ‘suitors’.

Bruce shrugs. He's clearly already seen the papers

She notes his soft red button-down with sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows;

“I have interests outside of books.”

“Such as?” That's a dangerous question: “Don’t mention my dance partners.”

Bruce starts to count on his fingers, “Chemical compounds-.”

“Explosives.”

“Not necessarily the destructive kind,” there's a small dimple in his cheek when he chuckles that she hadn't noticed before.

The cat leaps onto the table where Natasha has folded the papers of princes and eligible diplomats.

Liho responds to Bruce in a way that makes Natasha’s fists clench tighter; Her tail curls as he reaches to pet her black fur without hesitation. 

Of course, they get along immediately. Liho would leave her for a snack and a back scratch any day.

Natasha wraps her hands around the cat’s ribs and removes her from the table with a whisper.

“Traitor.”

“She’s just showing off her catwalk.”

“She can walk elsewhere.” 

Bruce drags out a chair and drops into it like he belongs here. The audacity is disarming. 

Natasha has no clue how to respond but to let him stay. If he walks into his own trap, he deserves the consequences. 

“Is ‘Traitor’ her name?” he asks.

Natasha glances at the adopted stray who stretches with a yawn at her heels, “It’s ‘Liho’, on a good day.”

The crack of her palm echoes off the walls as it slams onto the folder he lifts the corner of.

Bruce startles, his knee jerking in response.

Natasha smirks and deliberately sits atop the table and the folders, crossing her knees. From this vantage point, she can watch him squirm.

Bruce is unable to stop tugging at his fingers, “Do they teach chair etiquette in Princess school?”

“I have selective hearing,” She reaches, flicking a curl from his forehead.

In response, Bruce instinctively captures Natasha’s wrist as though he expected a hit. 

Banner's cheeks are red as his shirt when he frees her.

“Sorry,” he says.

She smiles. He's cute when he's flustered—undeserving of a hit. 

Bruce rubs at his cheek and finds her eyes. 

“I’m a rule breaker,” she offers, keeping her hands to herself. 

He swallows, “Oh? What other rules do you break?”

“Curfew. Doing my own chores. I like to get my hands dirty. Touching things I shouldn't,” Natasha winks.

His eyes are wide for a moment as he shakes his head. 

The scientist looks anywhere but back at her, closing his eyes and biting his lip, “I uh. I'm gonna- pretend you didn't say that.”

She's being too forward, and it's causing him to withdraw. 

Fine. Time for a new tactic.

“Have you explored the mines?” she swings a leg.

“Is that where you bury your dance partners after every ball-?,” he answers abruptly, distracted.

Natasha smirks, catching the flicker of his gaze at her exposed knees, then snapping back to her eyes. Too quick. Too innocent.

Bruce grips his arms, tugging with nails digging into his skin like penance.

She files his tell away; Talk first. Touch later- or maybe not if he will claw himself over a glance. 

He’s different from the men she typically needs to take down, and it’s alarming. 

“You don't know what you're missing,” Natasha offers before she can think it through. 

She removes herself from the table and urges him to follow with a tilt of her head. 

He obeys wordlessly with Liho at his side.

Natasha has her assistants watch the cat as the duo accept their hard hats and belt clips and get lowered into the ground in a close-quarter elevator. 

Romanoff momentarily forgot that the assistants usually let her be when she wishes to see her crystals. It gives her time to photograph, study, and take a sample for Fury’s sake. 

But Bruce seems too distracted to be a proper threat. And she can take him down if necessary. 

“Look,” he darts ahead, reminding her why he's harmless, “These pulleys must be at least a hundred years old.” 

She shoves her hands into the back pockets of her pants and observes.

“The stalactites. Can I?” he points, pivoting on his heel.

“If you can reach it, you can touch it.”

Bruce is feigning ignorance. There's no way he didn't hear her.

He looks like a child in a candy store, head tipped back to catch every glimmer of light bouncing from the cavern’s walls.

Natasha pulls a second flashlight from her belt, flicks it on, and sweeps the beam toward a cluster of clear growth. The crystals catch and scatter the light until the tunnel seems to breathe.

Bruce adjusts his glasses, awe softening his features. “Those must’ve taken centuries to form. The strength of the ground is… incredible. Dangerous, even. The fractures in the rock, the way they hold energy and hum—it’s…”

“Profitable,” she cuts in.

“Educational.”

The corner of her mouth lifts. It feels like he's suddenly studying her like she's part of the cavern.

“What?” she asks.

Bruce shakes his head. His hand is on hers before she can clock why. 

Bruce guides her light to enhance the refraction and cast a shimmer down the tunnel.

He seems pleased with himself, removing his glasses and gesturing like a magician.

Natasha focuses on how the light hits his eyes and immediately feels his warmth's absence when he steps ahead.

There is no conversation about trades or purchasing, nothing about the explosive potential. There is only awe and appreciation.

Natasha lingers longer than necessary at the base of the mine. Resurfacing feels like immediate pressure, as though she’s dove into a deep ocean and her head is ready to explode. 

She is swarmed, counting the number of eyes prepared to dote on her.

She doesn’t need help; she doesn’t want anything.

But then Bruce offers an elbow. 

Natasha tells herself it’s for the cameras when she immediately takes his arm.

It isn’t until later that she realizes he buffered the press for her sake. He must’ve picked up on her energy and gently urged her away before she could get bombarded with questions…

Damn gentleman. She needed to answer those questions for the morning paper.

Chapter Text

The flashlight illuminates the vast cavern, and light dances off the dark walls.

His hand is on hers as it lifts to cause the reflections. 

His skin is so warm. His breath against her neck causes a shiver to roll down her spine.

His thumb turns her head, a warm palm on the side of her jaw, as he tenderly brushes his mouth onto the side of her throat in a way she's rarely, if ever, experienced; safe. Kind.

“Nat,” she can practically hear him groan with his lips pressed against hers as though he can't get enough of her.

Her chest aches. She doesn't want him to stop…

But they're alone and they don't have an audience. There will be no proof the following morning. 

Natasha sits up, roused from sleep for the second night. 

She heads for her sink to splash her face with cold water and settle her rushing heartbeat. Gripping the sink until she’s white knuckled, she mumbles to focus.

Stop stop stop…This has to stop.

Bruce turns the knob to its coldest setting and lets the water hit him like a punishment.

Her hair, her smile- she's pleasant. She’s nice. And all he's done is try to find flaws.

Water courses down his face.

For once, he wishes he could follow through with one violent act and punch the wall. 

Bruce tenses, scolding himself back into submission.

Ross is taking up the sofa outside the shower with ice on his face.

“I'm gonna kill him,” Bruce hears his boss mutter, “Banner!”

He tenses, “Yeah?”

“While you were busy playing around with the Princess last night, Russia moved weapons across Mashna’s border. Do you know what that looks like? Like I've lost control of the damn circus!”

Bruce wants to tell the General not to blame Natalia. He swallows his retort, standing frozen in the guest room while he holds his shirt, towel still wrapped around his waist.

Playing around…Sure. Sure!

They were in the library late last night. He was reading up on the country’s history while the princess sat on her tablet and drew flowers at the window; the picture of innocence. 

The general is losing his mind by blaming her. 

Unless she knew, unless she was comfortable for a different reason…

“You tell her the games end here. Mashna allies with the U.S, or I stand by and watch the next city burn.”

Ross slams the door shut on Bruce. 

Bruce decides he's not about to bombard Natalia with this. Ross can wait or confront her himself. 

He's not a soldier, he's a scientist. And she isn’t the enemy. She can't be.

Ross and his orders can wait a day. It's not like Mashna needs America anyway.

The agents circle a black card table when Natasha paces through the following evening. After a day of diplomatic meetings, she could've used a game night.

“No one invited me to poker,” she announces as she settles between Clint and Phil.

“We assumed you'd be busy, you know,’ Coulson answers, ‘handling Russia.”

Natasha wishes she knew Fury’s right-hand man a little better;

“Handled.”

“How's Fury?”

Natasha shrugs. Fury sounded as pissed as they all are. What does Coulson expect her to say? 

She called in a favor with a country south, stationed her soldiers to watch the border, and cleared the civilians in a matter of 24 hours. 

At this point, she wants to play poker.

“Damn it!” Maria Hill trades her cards for whiskey.

Laura snorts, wiggling her fingers at the woman, “Pay up.”

Clint tosses his cards as Phil shuffles and addresses Natasha, “You want in?”

She smirks and allows him to draw his own conclusion as she takes the cards to shuffle them herself.

Clint downs his drink and pops the bottle's cork beside his glass, offering Natasha his own.

She shakes her head ‘no’.

Maria extends her arm to request more, “Your wife is bleeding me dry.”

“She does that,” he deadpans.

“Oh god, stop,” Phil pauses to cringe.

Laura snaps her fingers at him. “Deal faster, Nat. I have a bet going with Hill.”

Natasha deals, eager to watch Laura destroy the table.

“What do you get out of this?” she asks Clint.

He shifts, crossing an ankle over his knee, holding his cards close.

That’s pathetic. She already saw his ace.

“When you wreck her? Ten percent of the winnings.”

“Hey!” Laura frowns, tossing a chip at him.

“Hell no,” Maria glares, snatching the bottle back.

Phil sighs like he regrets ever sitting down with them. 

“How about this: That picture of Phil in his Captain America onesie gets circled when he loses,” Clint says as he hugs his cards.

Maria nearly spits her whiskey.

Phil flushes pink, “You cannot blackmail me.”

“I just did.”

“Play nice, Clint,” Laura’s eyes narrow with nothing but seriousness as she stacks her poker chips without looking.

“When I win,’ Natasha maintains bee composure, ‘I get to throw a party in the palace.”

“A ball?”

“Not a ball. A sleepover.”

Maria turns her glass and puckers her lips, “Why?”

“With the orphans.”

“Ah.”

“Legal is a nightmare in Mashna,” Phil grumbles.

But it's not a ‘no’.

“I want to mattress-surf down the wide staircase,” Natasha adds casually.

Laura smirks, throwing her hand away. “Fine by me. Pajama dress code? Cookies for dessert?”

Clint drums the table, cheeks puffed, but he keeps his mouth shut.

“Sounds dangerous,” Maria mutters. “Can’t wait to write that report.”

“It’s a liability nightmare… I’ll ask the boss,” Phil sighs. His thumbs are already moving across his phone like this wasn't the dumbest request of the week. 

When he finally looks up, Natasha meets his gaze with a nod. “Thank you.”

He salutes like she’s his boss.

She could get used to this: being doted on by a fake suitor, obliged by veteran agents…

“Don’t do that,” Maria condemns him.

“Bet, Nat,” Clint adds his chips. He is the only one at the table who does not relent and pushes her actually to play the game.

Chapter Text

Bruce continues to walk beside Natalia and listen, running a hand through his hair. 

They were headed in the same direction, so it's not as though either sought the other out. 

She found him on the bench, head down. With a roll of her eyes and a surge of visible courage, she asked him to walk with her.

The conversation was about sounds. It started with birds and drifted to the annoying bell on her balcony. Now, they've landed on a childhood confession, something intimate. 

“There was this girl I grew up with,” Natalia begins her story, having them walk the garden path. “She had this whistle for me. I'd whistle back.”

The absence of details and tone of her voice leaves him with multiple questions. He settles on one;

“What was her name?”

“It doesn’t matter.” A small smile spreads over her face, “What about you?”

“I can't whistle,” he laughs.

She shakes her head, “That’s not what I meant.”

Bruce looks at the ground. He can grow a backbone and do the same, if she can toughen up and share something about her past…

“Annoying sounds, let's see. My cousin used to set my alarm clock 3 hours ahead every Sunday night.”

She nods, “Vile.”

“Horrible,” he laughs again.

She crosses her arms and looks off to the side.

“I uh,” Bruce shoves his hands into his pockets, “Ross told me about the border.”

Her head turns back to him.

“I’m sorry,’ he shrugs, ‘sounded like a mess?”

She nods, “It was.”

Bruce watches Natalia fight with herself.

She shrugs, “Has Ross- Don’t worry about it. I won't put you in the middle of his wrath.”

“Oh, he’s been amazing. Ready to bite someone’s head off.”

“Yours?”

“Always mine,” Bruce clamps down on his tongue. He’s said too much based on the victorious smile on her face, “Ross, you know. He doesn't like the word ‘no’. So, any excuse to threaten until he gets his way.”

Natalia’s smile is gone, “Mashna can't ally itself to a country in chaos. And I won’t have the General here regularly.”

Bruce scoffs, “I, don't blame you.”

“That’s-

He looks up over her hard pause.

“-not to say you aren't welcome,” her lashes lift, exposing those bright green eyes. 

Bruce doesn't know how to respond. He inhales;

“Chaos trails me.”

If he could get the words out, she’d listen better than anyone else would.

“I can handle a little chaos,” Natalia nudges his elbow with her own.

Her hand lifts, reaching to brush his shoulder.

“You had a small thread there,” she mutters.

She is warm. Kinder to him than he deserves.

The thought slips before he can stop it: how easily his arm could fit around her waist, how natural it would feel to pull her closer. 

His gaze betrays him, flicking toward her mouth. Bruce shuts it down hard.

She’s royalty. She’s off-limits.

Thanking her for her sweet words and apparent forgiveness would mean letting too many walls fall.

If Betty called him back, these thoughts would go away. But she hasn’t, so they fester like an infection.

He needs distance from the Princess immediately. 

“I should,” Bruce throws a thumb over his shoulder.

“I’ll see you around,” she offers sweetly.

In lilac pajamas, Natasha stands on the balcony to address the orphans and her team.

“It’s time for mattress surfing!”

The cheers resonate as Natasha slides herself down, backward, headfirst and leads the charge. Sliding down stomach-first isn't an option the way it is for everyone else with all of the weapons strapped to her. So she free-falls, backward.

Coulson positioned himself where he did to be one of the first to fly down the stairs. He isn't in a Captain America onesie but a Hawaiian shirt and shorts to match his tropical sunglasses.

Laura is in a pair that matches Natasha’s, but in gold. 

Maria and Clint are the ones who maintain the uniform and refuse to move from guarding the doors. 

She has a clipboard in hand, already holding liability waivers while Clint stares stoically. 

He breaks when Natasha comes closer.

“Quite the party, Nat!” Laura shouts over the laughter and squeals, “I might need some earplugs.”

“They're having fun,” Natasha smiles, watching the kids slide down the stairs.

Clint takes a picture of Phil, who meets them.

“Don't you dare,” Coulson frowns.

Clint snickers, “Too late. Sent it.”

“To Fury?” Natasha asks.

Barton shakes his head ‘no’.

“You didn't!” Phil sounds so mad.

“I did.”

“Context?” Natasha asks.

Laura hums NSYNC, ‘It’s Gonna be Me,’ with a slight twang in her voice when she says ‘me’ that sounds more like ‘may’.

Maria snorts.

Phil looks like he's grinding his molars.

“I’ve done this once or twice,” Laura says as she rubs her hands together like a plotting villain, taking her place in line.

Clint produces a flask and chugs, then offers it to Natasha.

Natasha accepts. She’s pleasantly surprised that it's just beer and takes a second swig.

“What is she doing?” Natasha asks, pointing to Laura. 

“Surfing,” Maria answers.

Phil finally cracks, laughing, “She hasn't changed.”

“Nope.” Clint smirks, sipping again as Laura plants her feet on a mattress and rides it down flawlessly.

At the bottom, Laura bows. Clint blushes when she winks.

Natasha folds her arms tighter, envy twisting sharper than if she scraped against the knife strapped to her.

Chapter Text

Maria is spinning a coin on the table, the sound cutting through the quiet while they discuss politics.

“The press got enough footage to run with it,” Maria says flatly. “It’ll be in tomorrow’s paper.”

Natasha shakes her head, firm. “That’s not why we did it. The kids deserved a night to laugh, not another headline.”

Laura hums in agreement and drinks her tea. “She’s right. They will cherish the memories.”

Maria exhales hard but doesn’t argue further. She respects their track record; the three usually find an easy middle ground without Clint. 

An eighty percent success rate, give or take. 

Tonight, though, Natasha feels the odds slip.

“Where’s Clint?” Natasha asks, noticing how Laura clutches her cup too tightly.

“Annd that’s my cue,” Maria mutters, pushing herself up from the chair. The coin disappears into her pocket as she strides out.

Natasha feels her blood chill.

Laura smirks like it’s nothing, leaning back to prop her foot on the chair beside her. “You’re not the only one suddenly thrown into a countdown around here.”

Her mind spirals.

“Bozhe moi,” Natasha blurts, sharper than she intended. “What could Clint have possibly done to deserve being fired?”

Laura nearly laughs, but steadies herself, “He wasn’t fired. You’ll have him here for the extent of the mission.” 

Him. Not us.

Laura’s hand drifts against her stomach, tracing a secret that suddenly feels heavier than a firing.

“Shit,” it slips before Natasha can contain it. Her eyes slam shut, and the first thing she feels is betrayal. 

Laura’s hand clamps down around hers, firm, “Talk, Nat.”

Natasha forces her lips into a smile, “That’s great. That’s amazing.”

“No. No, stop.” Laura’s tone is sharp now, layered with affection and reprimand in equal measure, “On this team, in this family, we don't lie to each other.”

Family. Natasha can barely restrain the intense, conflicting emotions threatening to boil over.

She stands, muttering in Russian as she circles the room.

Pausing, she eyes Laura and grips the chair. “You didn't just find out.”

Laura bites her cheek, “If the baby were healthy, I would stay.”

“No,” her eyes close, “That’s not what I want.”

“I know you need me, I'm not blind. That's why Clint is staying with you.”

The words smack of unreliable comfort. Natasha grips the chair tighter, afraid she will crumble to the floor if she lets go.

Laura stands and pulls her close as she whispers. “You are like a sestra to me.”

Natasha nods rapidly over the word Laura said in Russian, stuck in a hug she doesn't want.

“I'm fine,” Natasha lies and composes herself as Laura pulls away, “Are you alright?”

“I'll be alright,” Laura brushes a stray red hair behind her ear, “So will you. You’re doing so much good here.”

Laura says more, but Natasha tunes it out and she can't reply.

She stumbles into her bed that night as though she's drunkenly lost her footing.

Laura is leaving when Bruce does. Coulson’s 8-day plan will be the perfect cover for Laura to slip out and…screw it all.

Natasha presses her palms into her eyes, but the ache doesn’t fade. 

Sister. Family. 

For how long? 

She should've asked more questions about the baby. About Laura’s well-being.

Will she ever meet the baby?

Natasha punches her pillow twice over the incessant countdowns. They will be the death of her. Not the mission, not the job. 

Her lilacs still sit in that mason jar, starting to wither.

Nothing lasts.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Natasha is in the kitchen. Palace staff are there, working alongside her, but she feels alone.

She carries pancakes to the balcony table she’s used only once. No one will find her there.

When Natasha heads inside to wash her plate, Maria slams a newspaper into her stomach;

“If you're done wallowing in self-pity.”

Natasha glares. 

“Look, I'm angry too,” Maria visibly bites her lip and sits in the now-empty kitchen, “The sooner you're Queen, the sooner you take down Dreykov, the sooner we go home.”

Natasha grits her teeth with newfound energy and opens the front page…

Mysterious figure in Mashna- takes down Russian attackers…

She turns it upside down, refusing to read more.

Maria crosses her arms. “It's a good thing you threw that mask on.”

Natasha swallows. 

“Nat?”

Clint? No. Bruce.

Hill’s arms swing, swiping the paper with her.

“I’ll be in the stables.”

Exposing her safe space exacerbates Natasha’s lack thereof. 

Natasha takes a minute to compose herself and to slip into a persona.

“Nat?” Bruce repeats, softer this time, like she didn’t hear him the first. “Are you okay?”

She hates him for sounding like he actually means it.

“I’m fine,” Natasha sucks her teeth, fingers raking through her hair before she sinks into one hip.

Bruce doesn’t comment. He stands there, curls a little wild, sleeve half-rolled like he forgot to finish getting dressed. Somehow he still looks…

She clears her throat, “I hope our accommodations remain sufficient?”

“Yeah. I uh. I find you in the weirdest places,” he shakes his head, “Do you forget your royalty or do you enjoy the, how do I say this, common tasks?”

“Is this an interview?” Natasha watches him claim a chair, settling across from him, “Are you considering an eighth PhD in journalism?”

“You know about my PhDs.” Bruce shifts uneasily.

Natasha regrets her words and backpedals. “I have had a long night. There's damage to control.”

He sighs, “Can I help? Or.”

Damn his sincerity.

“Why are you here, Bruce?” she asks, watching his throat bob.

“I ask myself daily-.”

“I mean now. In my kitchen.”

Natasha tugs at the sleeves of her hoodie, nails drumming the table.

He's shifting again when he mumbles, “You ate alone on your balcony, under the annoying bell. The one you hate.”

“Oh,” she’s unreadable, even to herself. It's as if the word came from someone else.

Beyond Bruce’s shoulder, she spots Clint. He's hovering just close enough, should she give any signal of discomfort.

Natasha huffs through a laugh, eyeing the Keurig.

“Can I?” Bruce asks.

Now he wants to play house.

“Actually,’ she can't deny her need for caffeine, ‘let's go somewhere. I assume the General has permitted you to roam Mashna as you wish?”

He hesitates, visibly fighting for self-agency, “Yeah.”

“Are you a coffee drinker?” she asks, as if the intent of paying for his order will make up for her thought to drag them into the public view.

“Tea.”

“Well,’ she clasps her hands behind her back, ‘I know a place.”

If Natalia expects him to ignore the guard who drove them to the coffee shop, who lingers outside the doors, she's crazy.

Bruce has memorized his location, every wrinkle in his face.

Since leaving the palace, Natasha smiles at an adoring crowd who wave as she passes through in a limo.

She needs to be loved and admired for her efforts. She thrives on the people's love and puts on a face for them that's made of stone as she crumbles on the inside.

This wasn't about coffee; she's mad at her guard. Her eyes keep falling to his hand.

Is it about the indent in his fourth finger on his left hand? It's absent from the ring, but a mark is there. And the way she keeps looking at him…

“Did he hurt you?” Bruce asks. The second the words leave, he wants to drag them back, bury them under equations.

Natalia’s eyes widen, “Clint?” she seems to slip his name, then laughs, “No! No.”

She brushes her foam mug with her thumb.

“While you're tied to a throne,’ she barely explains, ‘people come and go.”

“He’s leaving?”

She shakes her head, “Someone else. Someone I trust just as much. I…don't do goodbyes.”

He nods, out of words. He won't apologize again, that's out of place-

“Sorry,” it slips.

She smirks softly. “Thanks.”

Cameras flash outside the glass. Bruce notes the angle, the way the crowd leans in. Natasha doesn’t flinch. She thrives in it, even as she crumbles inside.

Every photo will frame him as something he’s not.

Fine. Let them.

They can take their pictures. He’ll take the bullets if it means she breathes.

And she is. Lighter now.

Chapter Text

“Are you going to tell me about your date? Or do I have to wait for the papers tomorrow?” Laura might be scrolling her phone, but her question is pointedly directed.

Natasha whips her head at Clint in disgust, “What did you tell her?” 

“Nothing,” he ices his wrist.

They fought upon returning to the palace when Clint asked about a glint in her eye.  A ‘lay off me Barton’ and ‘screw you Romanoff’ landed Clint a few punches. 

And then Laura rolled out the mat.

It’s them, how they communicate, like siblings.

Natasha needed to get the rage out of her system, not to mention it was a nice distraction after coffee with Bruce. 

And as for Clint, Natasha saw that he needed confirmation that they were still friends after Laura's news that she wouldn't blame him. 

Now, Laura waits expectantly on the couch. Like they're about to circle up and gossip.

“I didn't tell her anything, Nat. Laura sees things; she has eyes.” Clint lifts both hands to his wife.

Natasha rolls her sore shoulder, “Okay.”

“Nat,” Laura laughs, dropping her phone, “The only person you’re fooling is yourself.”

Natasha releases a guttural noise and downs the rest of her water near their sparing mat, “I’m not talking about this tonight.”

“Then when? I leave in a matter of days.”

She shrugs. Never, preferably.

Laura leans back and returns to her doom scrolling, “You’ve made my FYP; Princess on a Date.”

Natasha remains calm, “If they’ve perceived it that way, I’m doing my job correctly.”

“Uh-huh. Did you kiss?”

Natasha glares.

Clint slams the ice pack on his face. 

Laura snickers, “I’m just asking.” 

“I’m,’ she reaches for her thrown hoodie, ‘taking an ice bath, and going to bed.”

“If he throws rocks at your window and you answer, it doesn’t make you weak.”

Natasha scoffs, patting Clint’s shoulder, "No one in this room will ever accuse me of being weak.”

Clint groans into his ice.

“Damn you, Banner.”

Bruce takes the condemnation. According to Ross, he spent the day with Natalia and got ‘nothing’.

But the yelling is getting old.

“Hugging orphans,” Ross hurls the newspaper, “It’s a disgusting political trick.”

“Sir,’ Bruce inhales for courage, ‘you don't know her.”

“YOU do?!”

“-‘all of the accusations have come directly from you.”

“No one else has the balls,” the General hurls his cigar across the desk next. 

“That’s not what I'm saying.”

Ross lifts his gaze, caught off guard.

“Natalia is handling every threat to Mashna immediately,” Bruce explains. “She’s entertaining monarchs and squaring up with men who have played the game for decades longer; she's bold, smart…”

“You’ve fallen in love with her.”

Bruce swallows. A spotlight has found him frozen on stage and forgotten his lines.

Ross kicks the desk, then spins in the chair, “I should've known she'd turn your head, boy. You're weak to charms. You haven't played the game long enough to know when you're being used.” 

“I know when I'm being used,” Bruce adds calmly despite his pounding heartbeat. “I’m well aware.”

“Be careful, Banner.” Ross lifts a finger, which is more terrifying than raising his voice. “Or I will pull you before the mission is over for insubordination.”

He struggles to stand tall, eyes closing.

Ross sits back and whips his head to the door, "Get out. I have a meeting with my men.” 

Bruce is happy to leave so as not to be considered one of Ross’s. 

He wants nothing to do with any of it tonight. He needs to get out and talk to someone—anyone. 

He steps outside and paces the garden, eyes narrowing on a figure in the distance. She's on her balcony, rolling her neck, tugging an arm like it hurts…

Bruce steps closer.

Weakness and caring are two separate things. 

As are friendship and ‘love’. 

Natasha has let her hair free post-ice bath, curling as naturally when she crimps it dry. With her makeup off and in a black tank top and leggings, she steps onto her small balcony to better view the stars.

They shine unhindered in the open night sky over a dark courtyard and vast space that’s technically ‘her’s’ from the palace edge to the mountains in the distance. She can't see them from here but knows where to look. 

A whistle, or an attempt at one, comes from below. 

Natasha rattles initially, checking her hip for her dagger. 

She looks over the ledge, whispering, "What are you doing here?”

Bruce looks up at her with a slight smirk, a thin jacket folding at the shoulders when he shrugs.

“Couldn’t sleep. Neither could you apparently.”

“You're reckless to come to my window.”

“Probably. But the library was closed.”

Natasha rests an elbow on the iron barrier, “So you decided to come read me?”

“How was the whistle?”

“Pretty bad.”

He nods, seeming to accept the honesty. 

“My security is a beat ahead of you,” she can’t help but warn, and flicks a hidden camera with a fingernail.

Bruce waves at it.

She huffs in amusement, “You're either courageous or very foolish.”

“I'm very awake. But that's not your problem. Unless you wanted to walk with me?”

Natasha throws her head back and fights her thoughts. The words come out before she can swallow them;

“I’ll be right down.”

Natasha turns to leave, entering the hall.

“Who is it?” Clint greets her at the door.

“Bruce,” Natasha answers quickly, “He didn't throw rocks, relax.”

“Where are you going?” he grabs her elbow.

Natasha looks at her capture, “To meet him.”

Clint tilts his head, molars grinding.

“I’ll be fine,” she gently removes his arm from off her.

“Maria is at the fountains.”

Natasha grins, unsure if it's a threat or a warning. 

“In case you forgot,’ he adds, ‘the doors lock at 2am.”

“I know,” she backs up slowly.

Natasha pushes through the back doors.

Bruce isn't waiting long before she is standing in front of him with a sweater wrapped around her previous outfit. 

She should've brushed her hair, curl dropping before her face when she urges him to follow, “We’re leaving the grounds.”

Bruce lifts an eyebrow, “Is that allowed, Princess?”

“I expect you to call me ‘Nat’ tonight, Bruce,” Natasha says as she rolls her sore shoulder.

He gives her a blushing grin and follows, “Alright, Nat.”

Chapter Text

Nat seems to know the city like the back of her hand. She's an efficient traveler without her guards and limos, knowing exactly which path is least likely to have an audience. 

Streetlights are dim by a path along a river, winding and raised, hidden by trees and away from the main streets.

Bruce is trying his best to mark the path, should they need to turn around. But her shoulder is distracting him. 

"What is…-May I?" he asks.

Nat nods before asking what she's agreed to.

His fingers are brushing damp red hair from the side of her neck before he can clarify.

The bruise is fresh and has spread from the base of her ear to her shoulder.

"That's nothing," she pulls from his light hold.

Bruce's mind spirals. 

She's steps ahead, and he suddenly can't move, immobilized. 

"That's not nothing." 

Natalia turns around and stops at a bench underneath a light, "I was sparring with my captain tonight. Training."

Bruce refuses to sit, though he has no doubt she expects him to. 

Nat talks about injuries so casually that he can't help but offer a mini lecture: "He hurt your shoulder pretty badly. That'll swell."

"I'm fine," she says, so sincerely. "I left a few marks on him if it makes you feel better. Clint won't put weight on his knee for the next 24 hours."

Bruce releases an amused scoff over how truly different she is.

He finally sits on the bench, leaving space between them for the light above.

She crosses a knee, swinging her leg, "Why me?"

He knows what she's asking. The short answer is that he couldn't sleep; her light was on.

"Everyone else around here either scares me or hates me," Bruce answers quickly.

"I don't scare you?" Nat asks.

"Not anymore," he says, sitting back awkwardly. "I didn't expect you to agree to leave the palace tonight."

"What else was I going to do? Coronation duties? Practice firing my golden arrow through Mashna's Eternal Royal Flame?"

Bruce fidgets with his watch, "Without setting the yard on fire like your predecessor?"

She laughs and subtly waves a finger as they judge history, "In Prince Andrew's defense, he couldn't see the target very well due to the smoke."

"Isoform-8 smoke bomb,' Bruce recalls with a smirk, 'who set it off? His cousin?"

"You can't trust family."

He'd agree, but her head has fallen. 

Bruce swallows and finds oxygen: "For the record, I wouldn't screw up your aim. I'll wait to embarrass you after the coronation."

"In that case,' her eyes find his, 'I'll save you a front row seat." 

"How long is the ceremony?" he squints. "The princess one got a little redundant."

She slaps his shoulder, "Did you fall asleep?"

"Twice."

Nat shakes her head, "How did you survive your college professors?"

"With a lot of coffee."

"The Mashna caffeine isn't cutting it for you?"

Bruce shrugs, "I've been downing your Palace Blend tea instead."

"That will put you right to sleep."

He tugs at his hair, "It gives me energy. A vitamin B boost."

Her head tilts.

He feels like a museum piece under scrutiny when he asks, "What?" 

"You're a huge dork, Bruce," her ankle bounces, nudging his leg with her foot.

Bruce swallows, "Thanks?"

She leans forward, "You're welcome."

Her lips peck his cheek before he can process, and then she watches her stand.

His systems are glitching.

"Don't overthink it," she says with a hand on her hip, waiting for him to follow.

Bruce finds himself on his feet before he can bottle up and analyze that kiss. He wants to capture the moment and stay on the bench longer. He needs another, for science purposes.

"You know what they're saying,' he scratches his head nervously, 'about us?"

Her eyes are conveniently turned away from him, which muffles her question, "Does it bother you?"

"No!" Bruce finds himself responding before he can explain. "No. I've been called worse- that's not what I meant."

Bruce touches his face, then tugs his collar as if he will completely overheat.

Her smug smirk accompanies a chuckle, "Worse than my suitor?"

"...that's not what I meant."

Nat stands taller, fingers twirling the ends of her long hair, "The press loves to make my life insufferable. They'll do whatever they can to murk my happiness."

She trails off.

"If it becomes a problem, if I become a problem," he rests his hands on his hips.

Her eyes lock onto his with nothing but seriousness in her tone, "You're not the problem."

Bruce wants to refute it. He nods instead. 

"The security teams stay on the compound,' Nat tells the sidewalk, 'and the cameras don't extend past the brush."

Far enough from the bench. 

No one saw anything tonight. The interpretation was theirs alone, not the media's.

Bruce's exhale drags out of him, like it's been in his chest for a decade, "In that case."

Nat throws her head back and laughs before he can finish a half-thought.

And that sounds like the prettiest thing he's ever heard. He'd follow that laugh anywhere.

Chapter Text

Bruce holds his head in the dining area the following morning.  

It might as well be a continuation of last night, except her hair is braided neatly down her spine, tied with nothing more than a black elastic.  

“Just try it,” Natalia insists, eager to win her lingering bet that this tea won't energize him.

There’s something floral about the taste as he sips and grimaces, “This isn’t it.”  

She sits back at the table. Her raised brows challenge Bruce to explain.  

“I’m telling you, Nat,” he chuckles nervously, trying not to wince further.

Pink spreads across her cheeks. She hides it with her coffee mug, but he sees a playful spark in her green eyes. 

He looks elsewhere, tearing his eyes from her pretty smile.

The silence stretches until she drops her gaze, fidgeting with a napkin. “I was up last night thinking. You should come with me. To the gallery event.”  

Bruce coughs, wondering if he heard her correctly, “That's… public, right?”

“Yes.”

His brain scrambles through every possible disaster. For starters, there will be media attention.

Gardens and midnight walks are one thing. A gallery opening? That is a bad headline waiting to happen.  

“Uh. Huh.” His thumb rubs against the mug’s handle. His mind is racing a mile a minute. He checks his tea, momentarily distracted. 

“It’s alright. Forget I mentioned it.”

“I’ll go.” The words slip out before he can stop them. His throat works around the swallow. “With you. I’ll go.”

Natalia is blushing again, lips forming a smirk as she nods. 

Bruce bites his cheek as a woman enters, with a kind smile over her features as she greets him.

“Hello,” she lifts a hand, “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he says in greeting.

“Dr. Banner, I've heard so much about you lately,” she turns to Nat, “Though I’d love to hear more.”

“How’s your boyfriend feeling? Let's talk about you, Laura.” Natalia bites in a way that reminds Bruce of his family.

He and his cousin will poke each other endlessly, and this feels no different. The duo amuses him.

Laura invites herself to the table, “What were we talking about? Sorry, my guard dog couldn't join us.”

Bruce nearly snorts, caught off guard before remembering his jabs earlier in his palace visit, “Sorry.”

The pieces are falling into place; she’s connected to Clint—the ones causing Nat grief. The ones breaking her heart. This woman, currently behaving like a sister, is leaving.

“I'm sorry, Dr. Banner,” Nat swings her legs and sits taller, glaring at Laura. “My friend hasn't had her coffee yet.” 

“Are you enjoying time with the princess?” Laura rests her chin on her palm.

Natalia mimics the position, “He is. In fact, he just agreed to be my guest for the Gala opening.”

She leans back. “Guest of Honor at the Gala?”

“I should go,” Bruce says quickly, the words tumbling like a facet. He rises too fast, nearly knocking the chair back.

Nat swings her braid over her shoulder. “Ignore her, Bruce. She pesters all of my friends.”  

He offers a nervous half-smile, caught between wanting to stay and desperately needing air.  

Laura mumbles shamelessly. “What’ll the headline say?”

“Hopefully, there is nothing about me,” Bruce scoffs with slight mortification over one of his fears being vocalized. 

Laura grins, “Wear something to match Natalia in case it is.”

“I have. I gotta-…thing.”

Natalia only winks in his direction, a private flicker of mischief that makes his pulse spike as he retreats. 

“Bye, Bruce,” Laura waves. 

“You can't take him.”

Natasha nearly spits her coffee over Laura’s immediate shift in character once Bruce has gone.

“The hell do you mean?”

Her head tilts, eyes wide.

“Stop,” Natasha tries to stand when Laura grips her arm to pull her back down.

“Did you think Clint wouldn't tell me about your midnight walk?”

“Laura.”

“Don’t lie to me,’ she whispers, ‘if you continue with this farce, you will get hurt. I told you to go through with it, but I very specifically said, carefully.”

“I am.”

“Nothing about this is careful.”

“I can't be too careful. I'm running out of time.”

Laura glares, and it's cold, “If this were about the mission, the headlines would've plastered your walk across the front page, complete with a photo of your tongue down his throat.”

Natasha mumbles in Russian about how that'd never happen, finally free of Laura’s hold and able to pace the kitchen. She pauses at the window;

“The Gala allows me to do just that.”

Laura waits a beat before replying, “And you'd regret every second, having to humiliate yourselves publicly, to turn around and pretend afterward that none of it mattered….You pretend not to care, and that's what will burn you. Both of you.”

Her heart aches for a moment. 

Natasha turns to leave in complete disgust at how right she is and at her mask slipping. 

I'd Laura knew how dangerous Dreykov was, the lengths he'd go...

Laura can barely get her sigh out before Natasha is gone.

Natasha continues down the hall, shutting down every emotion. She reaches for pins in her pocket to slick back her braid and heads for the sparring gym. 

Chapter Text

An open box of tea bags is waiting for Bruce on the desk in the common area. They're from the package he opened this morning, prior to meeting up with Natalia, and smell how they have since arriving in Mashna. 

Palace Blend.

He raises a suspicious eyebrow and inhales the scent, noting a lack of florals, lilac, color, and texture…unlike the one Natalia made this morning.

Bruce lowers his eyebrows with a thought.

It might sound wild, but all bets are off when it comes to Ross toying with him and treating him like an experiment. 

It started when he visited the army base and continued after graduation. And then one bad experiment led to another.

Now, Bruce talks to a voice in his head and doubts almost anything offered directly from the General. 

But tampering with sealed tea bags? Maybe that’s not the General. Perhaps that's Royalty.

Maybe that's Clint. Or someone on guard duty. And if they're tampering with his stash, maybe they're screwing up something of Natalia’s.

“Sir?” Bruce boldly knocks at Thaddeus’s door.

“I don't have time for bullshit, Banner,” Ross blows the smoke from his cigar.

Bruce rattles the tea box like evidence. “Have you noticed a discrepancy between what we’re being offered and what’s over at the palace?”

Ross blinks at him like he’s crazy. “Christ, Banner. Russia’s at the door and you barge in here with tea?”

Bruce swallows. “I just. It’s. Something feels off. I want to take this apart and-.”

“Betty called. Call her back.”

The name hits like a punch to the gut. His grip falters; the box nearly slips.

Ross clamps down on his cigar, shuffling papers like Bruce is already dismissed.

“If this is about that redhead,” he cuts himself off with a grunt. “Take it outside.”

Bruce staggers out for his quarters, for the phone.

“Bruce?” Betty’s voice steadies on the other end.

He grips the box tighter, holding his breath until it aches. “Hi, Betty.”

Her rant feels like a punishment. He has failed some tests in her absence.

He tears open a tea bag and spreads the leaves across the nightstand. They smell wrong, look wrong. His nail presses into a ground-up powder that shimmers under the light. This isn't the same.

His instincts are screaming that this is wrong. Or it might be the voice in his head. Either way, they'd call him crazy without the proper data. 

And he's suddenly too exhausted to keep trying when Betty sighs. 

The sound hits. It feels sharp, icy. “What are you doing with yourself, Bruce?”

“Tea,” he mutters, abandoning the mess and standing to pace. “I’m listening.”

But his eyes are drawn to the courtyard through the window. Where the ‘redhead’ frequently enjoys plucking her flowers. 

“Pull it back further,” Clint coaches in the sunny field late that afternoon.

Natasha groans as she tries, the bow nearly squealing as she holds the arrow taut.

Maria is fanning herself with a piece of cardboard while Phil practices a golf swing with no club.

“I need an ice-cold Margarita. Salt on the rim,” Laura complains under an umbrella with her feet propped- ordered to sit there by the ‘princess’ herself.

Maria glares, melting and on the verge of heatstroke, “Are you kidding me right now?” 

“Fore!” Phil yells as Natasha’s arrow flies just too far.

The maid on the path yelps, dropping her basket of linens. 

Phil freezes ‘mid-swing’.

“Sorry!” he calls.

“Close,” Clint pats Natasha’s shoulder, “Try again.”

Natasha narrows her eyes, “I have one shot. There's no do-over at the coronation.”

He passes her another arrow. 

She inhales and resets. 

She drops her arms after missing the next.

Phil chimes in, “Barton’s a great shot, but he's a bad teacher.”

Clint takes a step toward him.

“You two move,’ Laura coaxes the men under a broad sun hat, ‘I can't see, Nat.” 

“We could trade places. I've seen enough,” Maria claps back.

Natasha exhales and raises her bow. Despite her best attempt at focusing, she spares a sideways glance at the figure slowly making his way up the path. 

The chatter thins, which tells her the group has also spotted Banner.

He lingers, hands shoved in his pockets as he silently observes.

Natasha’s arrow chips off the side of her target.

Bruce chimes in from behind her after watching a few more attempts.

“Your problem isn't the draw, it's the rim.” 

He points, and all eyes follow in that direction. 

Natasha tilts her head, urging him to explain. 

She watches him nervously lick his lower lip before entering her circle.

Her chest betrays her with warmth, and it's as though he belongs there. 

“It’s the way it’s cut,’ Bruce mumbles, ‘like a bad carnival game. It's rigged for you to lose.”

Natasha's eyes are on Clint before she can respond, watching him dock his arrow and snatch the bow.

“Carnival, huh? Alright,” he takes aim and fires.

The arrow clanks off the opposite side. 

“He missed,” Phil mutters.

“Whoa,” Maria comments.

“He never misses.”

Natasha offers a small smile, reclaiming the bow. 

“Well! Even the best don't beat rigged odds,” Clint mumbles, ready to blame the equipment. He nods in Banner’s direction, “I’ll fix it.”

Natasha isn't looking for approval but finds it when Laura tips her sunglasses down. She and Clint are having some silent conversation, both nodding. 

“You finish your ‘thing’?” Natasha asks about his earlier abrupt exit from the kitchen.

“Yeah. No? I don't know. I don't think I should,’ Bruce stammers, unsure about the eyes surrounding them, ‘go with you. To the Gala.”

“Oh,” Natasha feels her heart sink one inch at a time, taking slow steps onto the field to retrieve her arrows.

“I want to,’ he fumbles, continuing to follow her, ‘I don't think-…Not with the papers. They'd twist it.”

“Even as friends? No suitors. Nothing to twist.”

Bruce has been looking at her too long to say ‘no’. “Yeah…alright.” 

He beats her to arrow retrieval, bending so she doesn't have to.

“Thank you,” Natasha offers as their fingers brush. 

Her smile feels more sincere even to herself.

“You’re welcome,” his eyes are unwavering. 

There's no reason for her to feel this heat in her core. This is dangerous. 

Laura might be right, much to Natasha’s dismay. But it’s too late. She's already burning. 

“What is it?” she asks, seeing the words caught in his throat.

“Nothing.”

She nods. 

Chapter Text

Trapped in another dress, a tasteful isoform crystal was pinned in her hair at Laura’s admonition to remind those in attendance who truly owned the supply: Mashna.

Natasha lifts her chin at the staircase in preparation for the cameras waiting for her at the museum.

For a moment, she forgets she's looking for Clint at the base of the stairs. 

Bruce is in a slim-fitted black suit, a black shirt to match, and no tie, as though he's trying to hide for the evening. 

His chin rises as she descends, and his breath catches. Lips parting just enough to betray him.

Natasha almost lets herself believe it is real, that she stirred even half the warmth he always awakens in her.

Then her mind snags: Betty.

Did he look at her this way, too? Someone who doesn’t wear masks, untouched by blood?

Clint’s throat clears, snapping the spell. His earpiece clicks as he steps between them.

“We’re going to be late.”

Suddenly, the thin obsidian necklace feels like it's choking her.

Up on the stairs, Laura crosses her fingers in quiet encouragement.

Natasha follows Clint and Bruce to the limo. She let Bruce hold the door, his attention on their surroundings almost as sharp as Barton’s.

Flashes explode at their arrival. Instinct makes her reach for Bruce’s hand.

He offers one firm and steady squeeze in answer.

It’s enough to plaster on a fresh smile as she steps out of the limo into a swarm of reporters.

Clint scrambles, demanding space, “You photographed her yesterday; nothing’s changed.”

She almost snorts over his frantic energy, but smothers it just in time. 

Natasha pauses over Bruce, offering his arm. 

She secretly hopes the press caught his awkward smirk as she accepts it.

Maria arrives- late. Though Natasha doesn't have the time to ask why, the hay on her boots tells her she was with the horses; her happy place.

Phil catches up after. 

No one wants to be here, not in front of hundreds of eyes under pressure to perform. 

A man is at the entrance and already mumbling, accidentally positioned too close to the cameras;

“Mashna’s fraud and her new pet.”

The comment begs a response that ends with a broken nose. 

Natasha clamps down on her jaw instead. Her fingers brush Banner’s sleeve when she feels his brief shudder. 

“Ignore him,” Bruce whispers.

“Turn here,” she whispers back, directing him patiently, only parting from his arm when the event demands it.

The gallery team greets her with “a gift” and explains the new piece on display.

Bruce adjusts his collar and immediately misses the stability of her arm.

He knows the cameras are there and wants to shove his hands into his pockets, but he doesn’t know the protocol. 

Natalia lifts the fracturing piece of iridescent crystal from its red velvet display, wrist angled, chin tilted as instructed. 

More mannequin than monarch. It’s off-putting. 

A brunette heckler near the front opens her mouth;

“Father sends his regards, favored daughter.”

Bruce thinks he's misheard until Natalia goes rigid, her knuckles whitening against the crystal.

Clint is on it before another word is uttered, silently efficient. 

Bruce doesn't think when he offers his arm upon her return.

Her grip is tighter this time, taking a small step toward him. 

“It was humming,” Nat says under her breath.

He clocks what she's saying, mind suddenly on what grows feet beneath the palace. 

What else would hum around here?

Why would she be gifted with something she already has? 

How big was that crystal? How many grams? 

This isn't the time for physics.

His head turns. 

The other man who follows her with Maria, muttering, “We’re getting her out of here to the catering hall.”

Maria shakes her head, “The press expects a speech before the reception.”

“She’s not doing it here. Phoenix is leaving,” he taps his earpiece again. 

“Hushed, tones,” Maria admonishes as she grips the weapon in its holster and scans their surroundings.

“Right,” Bruce deadpans, “Draws attention to the whole, security parade.”

The woman looks like she wants to strangle him.

“Where’s Clint?” Natasha refocuses them.

Barton reappears in front of the group on cue, hand closing around the keys. Bruises are forming across his knuckles; he's ‘handled’ that heckler. Whoever they were, they aren't coming back.

Bruce grips Natasha’s hand and steers her forward, his frame cutting the press off as they step outside.

It isn’t until they reach the car that he notices not one, but two sheathed daggers poking their way through a slit in her dress. 

His eyebrows narrow, and doubt stirs. If she knows how to use those, and he's certain she does, maybe he's the one who needs the security team. 

Chapter Text

By the time they reach the reception hall, the masks are back in place. Ross is waiting for them, paintings and sculptures arranged to add to the ambiance.

“Banner!” his voice echoes off the walls as Bruce enters.

He ignores the General, fixated instead on the redhead. On the hidden weapons he knows she carries.

Natalia, though, seems suddenly composed. 

“A toast,” she raises her glass with a smooth smile, as if nothing can touch her on the elevated stage in her pretty dress. 

There are pretty words about Mashna, the ‘gift’, Bruce sees through it all.

Ross’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, grip heavy, possessive. “What happened at the Museum?”

Bruce blinks, knowing he's caught. 

Okay, fine. His game face needs work.

“Ask me later.”

“Banner, I brought you for intel. Get some.”

Clint slides in then, sharp-eyed, every muscle coiled like he’s already planning the spin if this goes sideways. “Everything alright?”

Ross scoffs. “Threats mount, and you’re worried about me?”

He cuts Clint a look, but Bruce is already tuning them both out.

Natalia stands amongst potential threats. And while there's a limited explanation for what's happened tonight, the fact that she can act as though all is well raises suspicion further.

Clint is Clint. It’s her team’s job to defend. But her…

She raises her glass with a smooth smile and sips, starting the evening's party. 

Bruce locks eyes with her. 

Natalia’s mask is secure. 

He needs to find her alone, with her walls down, if he expects any real answers tonight. 

Natasha tries her best to greet as many guests as possible, as though nothing is wrong. She knows every name and every dilemma they bombard her with during what should be a celebration of culture and artistic collaboration.

Due to the building's layout, stepping outside isn't an option tonight, so she removes herself from the main event hall and into the corridor. 

‘…favored daughter.’

“Bozhe moi,” it slips before she can process. 

Her eyes close.

“Natalia,” Bruce says, closing the door behind him.

“Oh my god,” she repeats, this time in English and with frustration.

“Look, I have questions and I'm not leaving until they're answered,” he boldly steps forward.

She’s brushing her numb face with her hands, “I don't know what you want from me.”

“Well,’ Bruce takes one more step, ‘let’s start with what that heckler said at the Gala.”

She spins, words firing before he can finish;

“I give them a princess. A soldier. I defend the border for three months, bleed for it, and it’s still not enough.”

“You know what I’m asking.”

“And I can’t answer that.”

“Try.”

“They’re mad about the crystal.”

“I doubt it.”

Her voice hardens. “It’s me who they want.”

“Natalia.”

“I fight my past every day. I bury it, make up for it.” A bitter laugh slips out. “And Ross? He’s not the only one who sees me as a weapon. A monster.”

“Nat.”

“Maybe he’s right—”

His hands are suddenly on her cheeks. His mouth crashes into hers.

Her gasp is sharp, punched out of her lungs.

When Bruce pulls away, she drags in a breath, mask snapping back in place as his hands linger.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Bruce mutters.

Her fingers clamp around his wrists, commanding. “You’re right. You can’t go around kissing people.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t.” She leans in. Her mouth cuts his protest short. “Just do it again.”

Her teeth catch his lower lip; her fingers twist into his curls, holding him exactly where she wants him.

Bruce groans against her mouth and for a moment, forgets the country is watching.

The lingering questions dissolve when all he can process is her kiss.

He’s lost in the push and pull of it all that starts and feels so natural. 

Both safe and dangerous at the same time.

His hands slip behind her neck, thumbs skimming her pounding pulse as he nips at her bottom lip, tasting her lipstick. She is warm, meeting him halfway with a force that makes his chest ache.

This is reactive. Impulsive. 

Sequins catch on his jacket as her back hits the wall.

Bruce breathlessly hopes he hasn’t lost all control. “Sor-”

She cuts him off, pulling him by the collar and regaining the upper hand. 

Her tongue claims his mouth, her grip unyielding as he registers he's now caged.

Bruce’s teeth graze Natalia’s throat, her skin, and her leg hooks tightly around his hip. 

Then he sees a red light flickering. 

“Camera,” he growls, forcing her leg down with its sheathed daggers, though every fraction of his body is screaming not to let her go.

“Shit.” Her head drops to his chest, hands fisting in his jacket as she hides from the lens.

Natalia buries her face against his chest. 

He folds around her instinctively, one hand cradling her head, the other locking her shoulders tight as if he can protect her from the world.

…Not that she needs it?

Or maybe, she does. Not in the traditional sense but in a way that reminds her someone cares. He can be that person for a little longer. 

Natasha waits with her head against his chest for the beats it takes for him to finally mutter;

“They're gone.”

“I promised you clean headlines,” she looks up as she parts.

“It was my fault.” 

Behind her, Bruce stays pressed to the wall, fidgeting with his watch.

Natasha hugs herself, then forces her arms down, fingers twitching for a weapon. 

In the framed glass, she straightens hair and smoothes the lipstick Bruce smudged.

“Maria will bury this,” she says flatly, though her throat aches, “Nothing gets printed.”

Natasha turns as though it's her final command in a room full of parliament.

Bruce lingers, still frozen in his position, foot propped up against the wall for support.

“Come on,” she urges as if he's one of her subjects.

“You go,” he’s still focused on his watch like it's some lifeline, the most purposeful he's ever been when it comes to tics, “I could use space, before I do something headline worthy.”

Natasha obliges his request for distance, some semblance of control, though she hates the idea of leaving him alone. 

She freezes at her re-entry.

Clint is at the door, too close to the window that exposes the corridor. 

Her head drops against the door that locks Bruce out. Shame claws through the cracks.

“You saw?”

“Everything…Just me. Maria and Phil are busy.” Clint then asks, “The camera?”

“I need that memory card,” she answers, the words bitter on her tongue.

Clint nods as though he’s received his next mission. 

He grips her shoulders like an older brother trying to anchor his little sister;

“Tell me you're solid.”

“I’m alright,” Natasha sighs.

Chapter Text

Natasha scanned the headline of "Successful Gala Event," which included a photo of her holding the crystal that morning. 

A speculative column has one of her and Bruce printed, but arm in arm is a far cry from the kiss she dreaded seeing in print.

The more intimate ones are secured on a microchip. Clint urged Natasha to destroy them two days ago...she's currently twirling it between her fingers.

Bruce has been quiet since the gala. He found his own ride back and has been locked up in the guest house for the last 48 hours. 

She only knows thanks to Clint, who supposedly delivered the note to meet her in the garden tonight. 

Natasha waits alone, sitting on a backless bench under a tree. Liho is purring at her heels, the only company she's permitted in the last 24 hours. She is hissing when a folder claps down beside Natasha. 

Bruce drops onto the bench, deliberately facing away from Natasha.

She inhales, unsure of what to say as she stashes the microchip in her pocket: "You got my note."

He's running a hand through his hair and asks quickly, "Who did I kiss the other day?"

A pause.

"Please don't lie to me," he adds.

Her blood freezes over the tone in his plea.

When Natasha looks inside the folder, the last thing she suspects is an image of her in a Black Widow uniform.

She closes it quickly as the words catch in her throat. 

Impressed isn't the correct emotion to feel in light of the situation, but he's done some efficient research and deserves credit.

"I think we both have secrets," Bruce murmurs into the night air. 

"Why don't you start then. Maybe I'll follow," Natasha proposes.

Bruce huffs humorlessly as Liho circles the bench, purrs at his feet, and shakes his head.

When he mumbles, Natasha thinks he's on the verge of standing up and leaving.

"There's something in me that takes over. Wrecks everything. The government thinks they own me; their favorite experiment."

Natasha bites her cheek, "Ross keeps you caged because of it."

"Your turn; Who are you, Nat?"

She smirks at the white roses with their sharp thorns.

"I'm whoever they want me to be."

His voice sharpens. "And S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"I spent years looking for a purpose. I'm not here to burn a country down, Bruce. I'm here to protect it. I'm not just...a tool."

"I never said that." He finally turns. And she finally sees his eyes; exhaustion, not judgment, "You're doing good here. Even if you're lying to do it."

Natasha cannot stop the words, "Do you look at everyone that way?"

"Do you feel this comfortable next to every monster?"

"You're not a monster."

He dodges her focus, tongue rolling over his inner cheek. 

The silence stretches as they sit comfortably beside one another.

"Have you told Ross-," Natasha starts.

He reaches for the folder, bending it in half until the center relents. He folds it once more and shoves the fractured paper under his thigh.

The silence is heavy, but it's no longer sharp. 

"Thanks. For stopping the photos," he mumbles, "We're almost even, now."

Natasha sighs with a small pull at the corner of her mouth, "Did it save face? With. Whoever is waiting for you back home?"

He releases a low, short chuckle as he shakes his head, "Nothing I do is going to save that."

She shouldn't feel relief over those words, "I'm sorry." 

"I hate roses," Bruce brushes his foot against the ground.

It's a pitiful attempt at pivoting the conversation. 

When she looks at him, he's hiding his face in his hands, tired eyes on the sky.

"You should head back," she hugs an elbow, "And try sleeping tonight."

"I,' he swallows, 'can't sleep. The nightmares make sure of that." 

She dares to turn completely, facing the same direction he is, "Me too."

Liho leaps back onto her lap and settles, claws enduring. Natasha stays put and demands that her black fur be stroked. 

Bruce also reaches to pet her, and Liho purrs.

"Greedy," Natasha scolds the animal.

"Will I see you before I leave?" Bruce asks.

Natasha's heart skips as her chin lifts. 

"Back to America," Bruce barely explains, unprompted.

"What?"

"Ross wants me gone. I'm now a liability."

"When."

"Wednesday morning."

No. That's not right. This wasn't the plan. It's two whole days too early.

Her mind races; does Coulson know? Laura?

"I thought we'd have more time," she stops herself short.

Something shines in his eyes, or maybe it's just the lamplight. 

"Ross?" she hates to add that man between them.

"He's staying. Just me."

Her stomach twists. 

"Do you regret what we did?" She hates herself for needing this, of all questions, answered.

"No," Bruce answers quickly. "Do you?" 

"I don't," she whispers her confession against Liho, as though her cat will take some weight off her chest.

Liho digs her claws in, demanding more. Natasha lets the sting anchor her because nothing else will.

"Meet me on the path tomorrow. Where the cameras stop," Bruce offers, seeming to fight with himself as he tugs his curls than nervously at his fingers. 

Natasha nods without thinking twice. 

And it's reckless.

Chapter Text

"Where were you?!" Ross shouts. 

"Oh, I'm sorry, did my tracker die?" Bruce backpedals toward his quarters, immediately regretting his tone.

"Banner!"

Bruce grimaces and prepares for a grab, a slap, something that doesn't come.

"I was at the palace," he swallows. "And I'm going back tonight. You won't find anything on her, so pull back."

The General's shadow fills the doorway. "She's made you bold, boy."

Bruce circles the bed, shoving shirts into his suitcase to keep his hands from shaking. "Think whatever you want."

Ross inhales from his cigar, exhaling smoke. "I tolerate you better when your mouth is shut."

The room holds the silence. And the only thing Bruce hears is his heart thumping. 

The General clears his throat, "The train off this continent to the airport leaves at zero-eight-hundred. Don't miss your flight. I want you reporting into New Mexico's base by Monday."

Back to his laboratory prison; The voice in his head growls. 

Bruce has nothing to say to his boss, nothing appropriate anyway.

"What will you do?" Bruce finally asks, jittery as he fidgets with a crumpled shirt, "To Nat. To Mashna. With your time here?"

"She's Nat now?" Ross flicks ash into Bruce's trash can without looking at him. "Drink your tea. Don't forget your place. I have eyes everywhere, Banner."

Bruce frowns, and the door is shut.

Tea. Again with the tea.

He pauses, pivoting to see his half-drunken cup and the bag's contents still sprawled on the nightstand.

Bruce straightens his spine with a crack, trying to ease his nerves from getting the best of him.

Adrenaline? It has to be. Tonight could be the last time he sees Nat.

Laura Barton has everything to say about the new plans for her to leave, starting with "Absolutely not."

Maria doesn't look up from her phone, thumbs typing quickly. Her other hand drums an impatient rhythm against the table;

"If you're done shouting over each other, I'd like to know what exactly I'm supposed to tell our Director in the next sixty seconds."

"I can't leave her," Laura whips her head and points toward Natasha.

"We're not abandoning her, I'm here," Clint encourages. 

Phil holds his head, "We won't get another opportunity. You know this."

"It's only two days earlier than we planned," Natasha says quietly over her shoulder, arms crossed.

"Two days!" Laura bites back, "I need those two days to set up your defense before you become Queen."

"I can handle it."

"You can't sneak out and handle the border in a crown. The fact that you've tried and gotten away with it..." her eyes narrow as she pauses.

Natasha can feel herself twitch and immediately refocus outside her window. 

"Forty seconds," Maria chimes in.

"Please, Laura," Clint begs.

Natasha circles and sits beside him, gripping his arm. She inhales and addresses Laura.

"You're leaving on the same train as Bruce. It's the best cover in case someone asks questions. As for the borders, that's my burden." Then to Maria, "Tell Fury to proceed with the timeline."

"Well. The Princess has made her decree," Phil says dryly.

Laura grinds her teeth, her eyes still sharp when Natasha looks her way.

"I'm sorry," Natasha forces out in a whisper.

Laura shakes her head, muttering one word in Russian that Natasha understands to mean: Later.

She knows THAT conversation won't be about Laura's travel plans. 

Clint reaches for Laura's hand, and she provides it. The two of them are holding each other.

"The next order of business,' Phil plows ahead, 'coronation timeline. One week? Two weeks? Provided the newspapers stay clean. This gives you time to 'grieve' the loss of your suitor, without making you appear weak...I mean, you two never kissed in public."

Natasha tilts her head toward Coulson. "Would you have preferred steamier content?"

"No!" he chokes, clearing his throat. "The public loves this innocence."

Laura is looking at her again when she echoes, "Innocence."

Natasha sighs, hoping her eyes are saying what she can't at the table;

Don't bring up the border. I'm safe. I wasn't caught. Not really. 

Maria drops her phone face down and sits back.

"Tickets acquired."

"For the circus?" Phil jokes.

Clint stiffens.

"Sorry," Phil apologizes humbly.

Natasha rolls her eyes and leaves, conversation over.

"Get over here, we're not done!"

Or not.

Laura calls, pulling Natasha into her private chambers.

Romanoff keeps her chin up, like she's a teenager caught doing something she shouldn't have.

"Bruce knows who you are, doesn't he," Laura says quietly.

Natasha swiftly closes the door before answering, "Yes, he knows."

"Nat," it's kind, too warm, and motherly. 

She steps back and crosses her arms tightly over her chest as if she can hug the feelings away, "It's been contained. There's no further risk."

"Really?! Have you done your due diligence on who he is? He'll tell Ross."

"He won't."

"Stop telling me after the fact!"

"When you stop lecturing me!"

Laura shakes her head, "What else aren't you telling me?"

Before Natasha can answer, a thump hits the balcony window.

"Prince Charming?" Laura deadpans.

Natasha isn't amused when she sees Bruce outside, rocks in hand. She lifts a finger, telling him to wait.

Laura leans over her shoulder, eyebrows high. "I was right."

"Please don't tell the others."

Laura gawks. "But you'll be fine without me. You don't need me to stay two more days."

"I know what I'm doing."

Laura studies her, then sighs, leaning against the wall, checking her watch. "The doors lock at 2 a.m."

Natasha spares a small smile because Laura sounds just like her husband.

"And I'm telling Clint," Laura adds.

Natasha hesitates before spewing words so caring, she's surprised they're coming from her mouth, "I'll see you when this is over. Just promise you'll get on that train tomorrow. I don't know what's going on, but I've never seen Clint so afraid. Do it for me."

Laura nods quickly, a small smile on her face. "Go. The dork's waiting."

"Promise me."

Laura narrows her eyes, hand on the doorknob. "Yes. If you promise me you'll spend tonight with the nerd in a non-impulsive, safe way."

"Shut up." Natasha can't find it in herself to laugh. She grips her wrist briefly, then heads down the hall to meet Bruce.

"Go Rapunzel, go," Laura deadpans, somehow able to find a joke and the last word.

Chapter Text

When Natasha finds Bruce on the path, he's pacing, tugging at the back of his neck.

He greets her, his voice hoarse and his eyes a bit redder than their glistening shade of brown.

"Hi, Nat."

"Hi," she says, studying him, then pauses. "You threw rocks at my window."

"Yeah. Sorry."

She steps beside him, shoving her hands into her pockets, "If you were aiming for stealth, you missed."

"Wasn't aiming for stealth."

His attempt at humor lands flat, and his smile doesn't reach his eyes.

They walk a few steps in silence, gravel crunching underfoot. 

They talk about their evening, vague and quiet. 

The scientist isn't one for complete control, but his fidgeting, hair pulling, and finger tugging are excessive tonight.

"You okay?" she asks.

"Define okay." He scrubs both hands through his hair. "I told Ross to go to hell. Felt good...for about six seconds."

Natasha pauses and dares to hope this means he'll stay. She hates herself for it.

"And now?"

Bruce shrugs too fast. He's sighing, inhaling...

"Sorry, uh-."

"Sit," Natasha urges as she pats the space beside her.

"-nervous system- not cooperating, I feel like I could run twelve miles...that's a lot for me."

Bruce is upright but leans a hand on the bench for support. His near stumble would make her chuckle if he didn't seem so jarred by it.

"Sit," Natasha hopes he will listen to her second request. 

He does so, his breathing still rapid;

"Maybe it's train dread for tomorrow's.... Claustrophobia. I don't handle tight spaces very well. Anyway."

Natasha's heart sinks, he's not staying.

"You alright?" He asks.

She sighs with a shrug, "You're leaving. My friend is leaving. And I'm on the verge of another coronation."

"Wow. Soon. Can you handle that?"

"Yeah," she nearly frowns. 

His knee is bouncing. 

And his groan is one of frustration over being unable to sit still.…Now she's concerned. 

Natasha swallows. "You're an anxious traveler?”

"My head isn't..." Bruce might be losing it, "He won't shut up."

"Ross?" she knows better. 

That's not the only 'voice in his head' who is bothering him tonight. Though she's unsure of what it all means.

He's up again holding the back of his neck, "No. Something is wrong."

His tone is clipped.

"Don't go. Please," her fist clenches as she turns in the bench, hand on the back of it, "Bruce?"

"No!" he snaps, then spins away before the word lands. 

He steps hard against the bench and the metal frame groans; a thin strip buckles with a sickening creak.

He says something about experiments, then muffles his words.

There's another, 'No'. Pitch deep. Guttural.

Natasha's breath catches. Her foot moves before she thinks about it. Instinct slides into place like a muscle she's practiced for years. 

She tumbles to her feet and her hand is on the pistol at her hip, fingertip already hooked to the release.

He shouldn't have been able to put that much force into a knock.

Bruce freezes mid-step. The laugh he tries comes out thin. 

His hands lift, palms out;

"Not you too."

Natasha holds her stance, unable to translate what he's said. 

"I don't want to hurt you," Bruce says, "Just let me...," he throws a thumb behind him, asking for permission to leave, "This is making it worse."

"Get down, on your knees."

"Nat, I can't control it." He's shaking.

"I know," Problem solve first, ask questions later.

"Nat." 

Natasha points to his jacket with her weapon, "You're burning up. Take that off."

He obliges this request.

"Breathe," she encourages and catches the shoulder of his jacket with caution, tossing it over the dented bench, "Look at me."

His palms flex like he's fighting the air, "I don't want to hurt you!"

His volume raises mid sentence as further proof he's not in control. 

"Ground,' her pistol is still in hand but aimed at the dirt, 'three visuals. Vocalize. Now."

"Steel- ugh!" his eyes close. "I'm not in control."

"You are. Stay with me," she crouches down, further engaging with him the way she would any fellow soldier.

Maybe that's the problem. 

The clipped precision won't reach him if that's Ross's tactic.

He points to his forehead. "He's right there."

"And I'm right here," she replies, lowering her weapon and extending a hand.

Bruce doesn't take it, but she doesn't lower it either. 

"Talk to me."

"He's thinks I'm in trouble. Starts here..." He gestures at his neck, where a faint green pulse flickers.

"You're safe," she says softly, taking his hand. "You're with me. Talk."

“Trees, grass...." He lets out a ragged breath, repeating himself. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You're not going to," she says, clipped but steady. "Because you're in control, not him."

A broken laugh escapes him, the sound of someone pulling back from the edge.

He breathes. 

She coaches, he counts.

Natasha's thumb draws slow circles on his hand.

His forehead drops and she catches her own against it, hand around the back of his neck to keep them there. 

The faint green at his neck recedes; the tremor turns into a low shiver.

Whatever came over him, is burning itself out and leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

"You should've taken the shot," he eventually mumbles. "Then again. It wouldn't have done much."

Natasha shakes her head 'no', and they stay there, breath syncing.

She waits to feel him calm and his eyes to open.

They're wholly brown. 

"Why did you stay?" he asks as his chest heaves.

Because I would've wanted someone to stay with me. Because I see you...words she doesn't say.

Peace always feels like a trap. This is the first one she doesn't want to run from.

"I want to kiss you," she warns.

His lips part. He glances at his watch...no, his pulse. 

Bruce is checking his heart rate.

The corner of her mouth almost twitches. Of course he is. He's there, human again.

Bruce nods over her request.

She leans in and he meets her halfway, their mouths colliding more from adrenaline than grace. Her hands find his wrists, steadying him, grounding them both.

"Does that happen often?" Natasha breathes against him when they part.

He shakes his head, voice raw. "I think Ross did something."

Her eyebrow lifts. She's going to stab the General herself.

Bruce finishes his thought, "I don't have enough data to prove a theory, yet."

She brushes his sweat-damp curls back from his forehead;

"We don't have to talk about it."

"Okay," he exhales, shaky but soft. "Okay."

Natasha nods, watching him slowly close the distance and they kiss again.

Bruce exhales, the tension finally leaving his shoulders. He looks at her like he's still catching up to the moment.

Natasha studies him, thumb still tracing his wrist. "You're okay," it's a statement, not a question.

"I think so," he answers, voice rough. "Thanks."

Her lips twitch. "Don't thank me yet."

His hand finds hers, fingers brushing the inside of her palm. The contact sends something sharp through her chest not fear, not adrenaline. 

They lean back against the tree as a light rain begins to rattle the leaves above.

"I should be taking you indoors," he huffs.

She tilts her head, voice softer now.

"Or,' she murmurs, thumb dragging over his knuckles, 'you could take me right here."

Bruce nearly chokes, "Nat."

"Only if you want," she adds as she lets her head rest on his chest, the rhythm of his heartbeat warm and steady beneath her ear.

"Not tonight." His hand slides through her rain-damp hair, fingers finding the side of her face. "But I do want to kiss you," he says softly.

Natasha's breath catches, not from disappointment, but from a safety in his words that she dares to allow herself to feel. 

She lifts her chin slightly, her smile faint;

"Then stop talking."

Chapter Text

“What do you mean she ran off?”

Clint tries to run out the door, but Laura catches his arm, “She’s an adult, Clint.”

“He’s a mad scientist, and she spent the night alone with him.”

Laura exhales and sinks into the chair.

“What?” He whines. 

“Don’t play the role of a jerk older brother. If she needs our help, she’ll ask for it.”

Clint points and accuses, “You told me because you don’t like it either.”

Laura pauses, eyes flicking away because he’s right. But she’s not about to admit it.

“Why aren’t you packed and ready?” Phil asks, dropping a coffee mug into the sink, “Were plans changed?”

“Plans weren’t changed,” Laura answers, “I have two hours.”

“Ohh.” He nods. Then, with casual curiosity, “Is this about Natasha?”

Clint groans and eyes Laura, who shakes her head ‘no’. 

“What’d she do?” Phil asks.

Maria bursts into the kitchen and locks herself inside.

“We are on damage control.” She raises her phone, “You all should see this.”

30 minutes prior…

Bruce wakes from his first real sleep in months. Nothing feels urgently in need of repair in the general vicinity... 

…maybe the bench.

Natasha’s asleep on his chest, breathing steadily, so he doesn’t dare move.

They’d talked half the night; books, policy reforms, her plans for Mashna’s children and families. And she’s learning to handle her fear of Russian trespassers, which impresses him more than he’ll admit out loud.

Bruce stares at the morning light spilling across the trees, wondering how long before he can lie like this again.

He brushes a kiss across Natasha’s forehead.

He’s falling for her against every better judgment, against the voice that warns she’ll never understand what lives beneath his skin.

That’s a problem for later, if this is all still relevant.

For now, she’s warm against him, wrapped in his jacket and the quiet of the path.

Fluttering lashes tell him she’s waking.

Her green eyes meet his. “Morning.”

He smiles. “Good morning.”

“You’re warm.”

“Gamma.”

She brushes his chest with her hand and then rests her head. “From what you absorbed in the experiment?”

“Supposedly.”

“I’ve never stayed out all night in the rain by choice,” she laughs softly, then murmurs, “I don’t want you to go.” 

Her words pull at his heart, and he brushes his hand over her shoulder. 

Natasha’s head flicks as she sits up, looking toward the water.

“What is it?” He asks, scanning the area.

“Do you see that? There’s a man in that boat.” She runs a hand through her hair and then glances between him and a small lake.

“Do they fish here?”

Natasha’s voice sharpens, and the accusation already forms as she breathes: “With a video camera? That’s Ross’s boat.”

She’s on her feet now.

“What?” Bruce is feeling frantic.

“It’s military. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Nat, I didn’t know!”

“Sure.”

“Natasha. Please. Please look at me.” 

His pulse spikes as he catches the crumpled jacket she throws. 

“Hey, Banner?” she says over her shoulder, already walking away. “Have a nice life.”

“Nat!” Clint greets her at the palace door, pulling her into her room.

Televisions are buzzing, and the news is on every screen.

‘Princess is emotionally unstable’

‘Royal Romance or Security Breach?’

Natasha hugs her arms around herself tightly, her sweater damp from the rain overnight.

Laura brushes her hair. “Are you alright?”

“Doors!” Maria barks at Phil, the last one to enter.

“I’m fine,” Natasha dodges the glances, “How much did the world see?” 

“All of it,” Hill lifts her phone to share the clip of Natasha with her raised weapon aimed at Bruce, who was about to transform last night. 

“We’re lucky it wasn’t a full green explosion.” As all eyes fall on him, Phil says, “Supposedly that happens.”

“It’s pretty damning as is,” Laura barks.

“Public trust is plummeting because she’s ‘falling in love’ with Mashna’s new ‘threat’,” Maria snaps back, “Her stance, the weapon draw- currently being analyzed by video channels specializing in KGB- I can’t stop this.”

Natasha sinks onto the floor and hides her face. 

She doesn’t need to look up to see Clint beside her as the agents argue

“What happened?” Clint asks in a whisper.

“I got played,” Natasha says into her knees.

“I’ll handle him,” Clint answers with determination.

“No.” She looks up. If it were anyone but Barton, she wouldn’t dare show the tears in her eyes. “Don’t hurt him.”

Clint holds her face steady, “You’re alright, Nat.”

“This is my fault,” Laura crouches to the other side, “I should’ve stopped you.”

“No,” Natasha turns to her, “It’s not.”

“It’s Fury,” Maria says as she lifts her ringing phone.

Phil takes it from her and answers on her behalf.

The two turn to exit.

Laura sighs, waiting for the door to close, “We need to move up the coronation. The more time the public has to chew on this, the worse it gets.”

Clint is focused only on Natasha.

Natasha sniffles, hugging her knees into her chest, “Okay.”

“Drink some water, Nat,” Laura suggests kindly.

But help is the last thing Natasha wants as she throws her head back, eyes shut.

Clint tilts his head, urging Laura to leave while he stays on the floor with Natasha in the silence.

Natasha stands only to shower. When she returns, he’s still there. 

Clint is cross-legged with a notepad on his knee, and a tic-tac-toe grid sprawls across the page.

“Your move,” he says, offering her the pen, “Or we can take this to the mat. Your choice.”

She scoffs, wiping her face with her hands, and then takes it. 

Only Clint can pull her out of this sort of spiral. 

Chapter Text

Natasha is holding Liho at the doors, watching as Clint and Laura cling to each other.

Natasha can’t help but think Bruce is already en route, unaware they share the same train. 

If Mashna’s borders weren’t under such tight surveillance they wouldn’t have needed to manipulate an exit using Bruce’s military clearance, in his ‘Ross cleared’ transport.

Too many departures too close together looks like an extraction or political retreat. And they can’t afford another scandal. 

Laura hugs Natasha last, squeezing both her and her stray cat, “Be smart. Be bold.”

Natasha nods, noting for the first time how pale her face seems.

Clint allows Natasha to hold his shoulder as Laura winks.

She has to get to America. Whatever is wrong with her baby, with her, they can figure it out there.

Natasha inhales deeply, holds it for five seconds, then exhales.

“Come on,” Phil claps Barton’s back, then calls for Natasha, “You both need food.”

She glances back, watching the S.H.E.I.L.D approved car drive off. 

And just like that, both Laura and Bruce are gone. 

“Nat.” Clint’s voice breaks her focus, making sure she follows. “Come eat.”

She’d argue, but then she won’t have the energy to confront the press with a public speech.

Bruce sits by the window with brain fog. 

Normally he hides in the aisle, but tonight the train is empty enough that the window seat feels safe. 

His foot props on the chair ahead, a small duffel tossed beside him.

Leaving Natasha feels wrong.

Putting his personal feelings aside, Ross is still out there. 

The General may be paranoid, but he can’t really believe she’s a threat worth “taking out.” 

Can he?

Tampering with Bruce is one thing. It’s not new. Bothering royalty, poisoning their water supply, would be another.

Bruce presses his thumb along the thorn still in his pocket, the one he pulled from her finger. It bites deep enough to draw a pinprick of red.

“Ow.”

Dang it. Now he needs to clean everything the blood touched. 

A woman a few rows up glances over her hood. 

Bruce flinches, mumbling, “Fine! It’s fine!”

Great. Now he looks unhinged.

Nothing compares to last night. He’s never lost such control, never been that shaky…

It’s not like Ross was there when Bruce left this morning to ask and bring up what he was drugged with.

Bruce turns back toward the glass, watching the light rain race down the window. 

“Natalia.” Phil sounds hesitant as he sits across from Natasha in the library.

She glances between him and Clint, wary of his unearned giddiness and half-expecting more fallout.

“Hi?”

“How’s the Queen’s Family research going?”

“Fine.” Natasha closes the book. “There’s little about supposed relatives in books. But I recalled something about my cousin the other day.”

Clint’s head whips between them.

“Your cousin-?”

“Uncle, maybe. He had an orange cat.”

Clint coughs, tapping his chest and glances at Phil.

Natasha blinks for a moment and bites her cheek, unsure why she knows this. She just does.

“Maybe I’m imagining things. It’s not like I have a mother to ask about specifics related to anything family. Distant or otherwise,” she brushes it off, “We don’t even know if my birth certificate is real.”

Coulson contorts his mouth as if he doesn’t know how to address that;

“I got you something. A music box.”

Natasha narrows her focus as she opens the brown bag, “Were you visiting the tacky tourist storefronts again?”

“You told everyone to support small businesses,” he says, lifting his palms in defense. “I’m just doing my part. Plays a Russian- I mean. Fun song. It plays a fun song. Tiny ballerina and everything.”

Clint drops face first against the table, shaking his head.

Natasha smirks, genuinely amused by the two of them, 

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome!” Phil beams and nudges her with his elbow. “Hopefully that’s a work-expense write-off.”

She scoffs, turning the delicate eggshell shape in her hands as he claps her shoulder on his way out.

The tiny key at its base rattles, waiting to be wound.

Natasha returns to her stack of books and chooses her next. 

It’s one that Bruce was reading if the bookmark is any indication. A string from a teabag with ‘Palace Blend’ still attached.

She’s ready to put it back but a folded page slips out. Her pulse stirs when she sees the name on the fold: Natalia.

Clint glances up, cheek still pressed to his arm. “You got a whole lot of mail today.”

“I guess,” she murmurs, unfolding the note written in handwriting only Bruce could have.

Nat Princess,

I don’t blame you for being angry. You should be.   

I didn’t set you up. If I’d known about Ross’s boat, I would’ve suggested meeting you by the roses.    

It was real to me-

Watch out for the thorns                      

                            -B

Natasha folds the paper again, tighter this time, and presses it between the book’s pages.

“You alright?” Clint asks.

She stands, “Yeah. Tired.”

“Me too.”

“Sleep, Clint. Get some rest.”

He seems to not want to move from the table, eyes closing there.

Natasha brushes his back and packs up the table.

She carries her ‘mail’ back toward her room, Liho padding quietly at her feet.

The door swings open and they’re met with cold air. Liho jumps back, immediately hissing angrily.

This isn’t PTSD if the cat can see this monster too. 

Ivan Dreykov is in her room. 

Chapter Text

Natasha shuts her eyes over hearing the words 'favored daughter' leave this monster's mouth. 

She reaches for the dagger strapped to her, ready to hurl it forward...but grits her teeth instead. Nothing feels right.

Two other widows are at his side as he takes up more space than just the chair, sipping her tea.

"You've done well here. Well, for Russia."

"That's not who I am anymore," she groans, frustrated with her brain.

"Mashna is so easy to access. The ships that come and go. Or, it was. Until you put up a good fight."

Natasha debates smashing her head against the wall. Maybe she'll wake up.

"What do you want?"

"You'd look so pretty in a crown."

"Ugh," Natasha circled the room, stumbling on the mason jar and dried flowers they must've toppled upon entry, "I'm not your puppet anymore."

"You may believe this a little longer."

"Don't tell me what to think."

"What would your mother say?"

"Nat-!- Get down!" Maria yells as she enters, weapon firing.

The window shatters behind Ivan, and suddenly all three are gone. 

Natasha meets them at the window and sees they've all vanished, ready to curse the night air.

Clint is there, bow and arrow aimed to fire, "Where'd the bastard go?"

Natasha sinks against the wall. 

"What did he want?" Clint presses verbally.

She shakes her head.

Clint whips his head back to the field, "Give me an hour, I'll hunt him."

"You'll get shot in the process."

"Damn it!" Maria snarls, "This is a security breach. I knew something was wrong when the cameras started acting up."

Phil traipses in, casual as ever. "Hi guys...did I miss anything?"

Maria glares. "No. You're right on time."

Clint's eyes stay on Natasha while the others argue.

She shrugs. "It could've been worse."

"What did he say?"

Natasha doesn't answer. Something in the back of her head snapped and she doesn't know why she froze.

Barton pivots, softer. "Natasha, I know this is new to you. Trust is fragile. Mine is too. But if we're going to get through this, you need to trust us."

"He wanted to prove he could still control me," she says only to Clint. "He can- but not in a way I can fix right now." Natasha hugs herself.

Clint's hand settles on her shoulder. "Thank you," he whispers.

"He thinks having me at the helm is useful to him."

"Shit!" Maria spits, lowering her weapon. "Plan: cut staff to essentials, send home anyone who isn't an agent."

"Compensate them for six months as if they still work here."

"Fine. But everyone goes. The cat, too."

"Liho stays," Clint and Natasha say in unison.

"Fine." Maria relents, jaw tight.

Bruce disembarks from the train with the duffle swung over his sore shoulder with determination. 

The airfield is massive, and camps are set up along the sides.

What rattles him the most is the army presence and the number of soldiers. Ross has had more than a day's head start.

"Hey," Bruce stops a man in his uniform, "What's with all the guns?"

He brushed him off.

Bruce paces forward, then sideways, spotting Ross with a tight circle. He's easy to find when the smell of the cigar trails him everywhere.

"General," it comes out cold.

Ross turns, eyes narrowing. "Jesus, Banner." He exhales a cloud of smoke and gestures toward the waiting jet. "Get on the damn plane."

"I will," Bruce says evenly. "But you and I have unfinished business."

Ross mutters something as Bruce pulls a crumpled tea bag from his coat pocket and holds it up.

"What the hell is this?" Ross frowns.

"You set me up," Bruce says, voice low. "And I want to know how."

"Banner."

"Don't," Bruce cuts him off, voice cracking into anger. "Don't lie to me."

"You're out of your mind."

"I was. So what's in it?" He grips it tighter, "It glints, it shimmers, Nat's didn't. How-..."

He swallows.

Ross waits with odd anticipation.

Bruce continues, "You got Crystal access."

"A sample."

"But this is Isoform-8—that's illegal."

He bites his cigar with his eyes raging, "I've got to hand it to you, you're a bigger pain in the neck than I ever thought possible."

"You were poisoning me."

"Testing."

"Of course," Bruce says weakly, "I'm such an idiot. You wanted me to turn on Nat, so you let me go."

"If you miss your flight-."

"You'll what, Ross?" He drops his shaking hand, "You've taken everything else from me." 

The General abandons his cigar and starts to turn away.

"All you want is another weapon," Bruce can't let it go, "She won't ally with you, she knows she doesn't need you."

"Then you failed, boy." He steps toward Bruce, "What happens next is on you!"

Bruce shakes his head, or he hopes he is, as his body is going numb, "If you force your way in, there will be consequences."

"Damn the consequences! If we don't move, Russia will. Who protects Mashna's crystals then? The girl?!"

"Yes!"

Thaddeus raises his eyebrows, "Oh?!"

"No."

"You're holding out on me, Banner. You know who she is."

"I know she's the leader of Mashna, and you're on the verge of committing a crime."

"You're the one who attacked her last night," Ross brushes him off. 

Bruce drops his bag, "Don't-!- do this!"

"Take care of him," Ross orders, and soldiers make their way to either side of Bruce.

Cornered and trapped, he inhales and calls off the voice in his head. 

Teeth are gritted when Ross steps closer, as if deciding it's safe now.

"If you won't cooperate and get on the plane, you'll tell us how to access the mines, and then you'll give me everything you know about the phony." Ross shoves a map into Banner's chest.

It falls as his hands are clasped behind his back.

"How'd you get in?" Ross asks.

"Legally. It's uncontrollable; you saw what it did to me. The second you take the wrong amount away from the ground, and it won't just hum, it'll explode."

"For Christ's sake- Where's the access point?"

"I don't know."

"Don't test me."

"Maybe the other guy remembers. Ask him."

Ross grumbles as he turns away, finally losing his temper as he circles back.

There's a jolt of pain, neck twisting when a fist crashes against his face. 

Bruce wishes the airfield were clear. Even the soldiers aren't truly to blame. Just Ross.

Then he could snap, let the Hulk take over.

"Let's try this again," Ross huffs.

The jet waits, and soldiers close ranks. 

Bruce keeps the scream bottled down, not ready to break. 

The airfield hums with tension. Ross inhales, ready for another order.

"Hey!"

The shout cuts across the tarmac. Soldiers jerk their heads toward the platform.

The woman from the train steps forward with her hood now off.

And Bruce immediately recognizes her from the palace.

Laura's pistol is raised and pointed at Ross.

"Hands off the dork."

"He's turning!" someone shouts.

"He's not." Laura starts, but it's too late.

A shot cracks through the air. 

Bruce jerks back, breath hissing through his teeth. The noise, the smoke.

The air seems to hum, deep and low, like a pressure drop before a storm.

"Get her!" Ross points to Laura.

"Well. Damn," the woman grumbles as if it's a casual Saturday morning and she just burn her breakfast. 

Bruce snaps into action at her defense, trying his best to control the inner voice telling him to rage.

Chapter Text

"Standing up for me's always a bad idea," Bruce says as be dodges a flying bullet at Laura's side.

He knows Natasha trusts her. Right now, it's enough amongst Ross and the soldiers he doesn't trust.

Laura laughs, her back pressed against the side of a wall, "I wish she didn't like you so much."

She.

Natasha.

He'll unpack that later.

Bruce pivots to remove Laura from harm's way.

"We can talk about this, Ross!"

"He's done talking," Laura elbows into a soldier in her space, then bolts. 

Bruce takes her nonverbal cue and follows.

She's like a tornado, incapacitating and disarming anyone in their path.

They skid to a stop as too many soldiers close in, rifles raised. Laura's hands shoot up the second Bruce lifts his.

"...fourteen, fifteen, sixteen," she grumbles as she counts. "Come on. Can't we keep this a fair fight?"

Ross reveals himself from the dust, addressing Laura, "You really thought you could outrun the U.S. Army? Attacking soldiers is a pastime of yours?”

Bruce scoffs humorlessly, “Leave her alone.”

"Christ, you're an idiot, Banner."

"Get your men out of here before you push me too far." 

"You are threatening a superior officer in the middle of a foreign country, god damn it!"

"We're not getting off this tarmac," Laura mumbles to Bruce above a whisper. 

"You are," he whispers back, suddenly full of nervous energy.

Her head turns, "What?"

"Just run when I tell you-.”

"What?"

"Go!"

The word rips out of him, and a pulsing burn starts at the back of his neck.

Ross has no choice but to slip into a defensive position, all energy focused on an impending Hulk explosion rather than packing up and moving in on Mashna...

No. On Natasha. This is for Natasha.

Laura only heard of the Hulk's files through Phil. Seeing the green Goliath is another story.

Something is jarring about the shredding and destruction, and she wonders if getting on the plane is even an option anymore.

Every vehicle within reach pivots toward him, engines roaring, weapons locking. The tarmac becomes a battlefield in seconds. Sparks fly—dirt churns. 

Her hand twitches.

Clint would kill her for staying this close, but she'd never forgive herself for running when Natasha's friend is clearly fighting for them.

Ross is shouting something through a bullhorn, his voice breaking under the feedback. Soldiers move in and spread out.

She can't look away, breathing deeply to steady her racing heart. 

Laura signed up for this. A battle was always a risk to the mission. But one with shrapnel flying on an airfield? Not the plan. 

A jet descends through the haze that she instantly recognizes. 

Her feet wobble, her shoulders tremble as she stands with an exhale...

...she's about to hurl all over her boss, Nicholas Fury.

At least they'll be out of this soon. 

"Agent Nineteen!" Fury's voice booms over the chaos as the jet hovers, agents rappelling in formation. "What the hell are you still doing here?"

Laura lifts a shaky finger, the other hand clutching her stomach. "Hold that thought," she manages.