A/N: This is a Bruce/Natasha WIP set after Age of Ultron (canon compliant through Ant-Man). It is the third in a series, so if you haven't read Like a Mirror Reflecting Me and Just Having Trouble Finding North, please go visit my profile and read those first if you want things to make sense! (I suppose you could read this without knowledge of those stories, but there will be references that you don't understand.) Story will [eventually] feature graphic violence and some sex, so if that's not your bag, this one may not be for you. This is currently canon compliant but will make no references to any wars, neither Civil nor Infinity, so it'll be AU soon enough. Title is taken from a song by The Civil Wars (much like the other two stories in this trilogy). This fic is currently over 60,000 words in length, and it's still being written, so you may be in for a long one. Enjoy!

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Natalia Alianovna Romanova is seven years old, and she is sitting in a dark broom closet. She's huddled in the corner, discreetly curling up behind a shelf full of cleaning supplies. She's got her mouth covered with her palm, quieting her breathing as much as she possibly can. One of the guards is in the hallway outside the closet, screaming at one of the girls in a threatening, booming voice that Natalia has not quite gotten used to yet. She'd slipped into the closet just as the yelling started, wanting to remain unseen and avoid any potential fallout from the confrontation. One of the girls is about to be punished, and Natalia wants no part of it, wants to hide away. She crawled behind the shelf the second she closed the closet door behind her, and she has been hiding for the past five minutes as the screaming proceeds.

Then she hears it, in between the sound of angry guards and a crying girl - a whimper from nearby. Natalia snaps her head around in surprise. She'd been certain she was the only person in here, but now she spots her - someone else, a little blonde girl hiding in the shelves on the opposite wall. Natalia recognizes her right away. She's new, just arrived a few days ago. The girls had whispered about her at breakfast. It's clear the girl is terrified. She's trembling so badly the shelf is beginning to shake.

Natalia tries to catch her eye. It's dark, but the light creeping in from the crack under the door is providing them with just enough to see each other. She shakes her head at the girl, urging her to stay still, then she presses a finger to her lips and gestures for the girl to be quiet. The shelf stops shaking just in time; the man and girl outside fall into silence, and everything is quiet. Natalia listens as their footsteps disappear, trying as hard as she can to be certain they have gone and that she and the blonde girl are truly alone. There wait a full minute in silence before they dare move. Natalia counts the seconds in her head.

When a minute has passed in absolute quiet, Natalia stands and holds a hand out to the girl in the shelves, helping her get down as carefully and silently as possible. She can feel the girl tremble against her, standing a few inches below Natalia. She's still shaking with fear. Natalia understands. She herself does not tremble anymore. She stopped a few months ago. But Natalia still feels the fear.

She whispers to the tiny blonde girl, "It's okay, little one."

PRESENT DAY

Natasha has spent a lot of time thinking about how her reunion with Bruce may one day go. She's always known she would see him again eventually, but the possibilities and the imaginings of how it would potentially happen have made her wonder for months on end. She tries not to think about it much, and she's pretty adept at pushing the thoughts aside the majority of the time. But Bruce Banner lingers. He's lingering with her more than anyone else ever has before, and his absence has left her feeling something akin to bereaved. Not full time, but in scattered moments, because she is Natasha Romanoff, and she is nothing if not capable of holding herself together and putting on a mask and getting the job done. And there's been a lot of work to do, training the New Avengers, and she is okay. The work is fulfilling, and her friendship with Steve has been strengthened by the work, which she has really learned to enjoy. But there are moments, through the months, little moments where she will think of Bruce, and she'll get caught with her shields down and will feel physically pained at the loss of what almost was.

He left her. She understands why, gets his reasons, and she will be just fine. She is always fine, in the end. But it still hurts, sometimes. He won't stay out of her life forever, she knows. He'll be back in some capacity, one day. Aliens will invade or killer robots will attack or some other insanity where things are so desperate and hopeless that no one will survive without him. If the need for destruction ever becomes that great, Natasha knows he won't be able to stay away. So he'll be back one day. She's just got no idea how or when or where. And she wonders about it. A lot. Maybe they will fall into each other's arms and embrace (unlikely, she thinks). Maybe he will be pissed at her, full of understandable anger, when they finally see each other again (a bit more likely). Or maybe she will wind up yelling at him for disappearing (she thinks this is just as likely; she is still more than a little bitter at the way things ended between them).

What she doesn't imagine or expect is the reality - Natasha showing up on his doorstep in Viti Levu eight months after he leaves, bleeding from a bullet lodged in the back of her shoulder.

Her voice cracks when she speaks the first words she's said to him since the quinjet video feed.

"I need help."

It kills her to ask because she really does not want Bruce Banner's help. Not now. She'd been planning on waiting, letting him come to her when he's good and ready. She hopes he has forgiven her for pushing him, making him transform into the Hulk. She's certain he at least knows her well enough to understand her reasons for what she did, but she also took his choice in the matter away, which isn't something she takes lightly. Natasha doesn't regret her actions from that day. They had needed him in the field, and she thinks that Bruce knew it deep down, too. But she did still shove him off a ledge after kissing him, and she thinks that he's allowed to be pretty angry about that, too.

He's the one that left, though, so she wanted him to be the one to make the first move. But now she's bleeding and in Fiji and needs somewhere to lie low for a couple days while she recovers.

Bruce doesn't say anything when he opens the door and she asks for help, but he does stare at her for several long moments with what looks like yearning. He seems visibly startled, too, by her sudden appearance, taking in the blood-stained clothes she's still wearing with a deep frown. He nods and ushers her inside without speaking a word.

"Take off your shirt," is the first thing he says to her a few moments later.

It reminds her of earlier times when he would put his foot in his mouth, bumbling through accidental innuendos on rooftops and in Stark's labs. But this time Bruce's face doesn't flush, and he doesn't stutter out an embarrassed apology. He's given up on pretense now, it would seem. Natasha raises her eyebrows somewhat amusedly at the remark. Bruce doesn't see it, though, because he's reaching for the first aid kit he's got stashed under the sink in his kitchen. She does as he says, pulling her shirt over her head and putting it on the table, and he turns back to her, eyes fixed on the wound that mars her flesh.

He adds, "That looks nasty."

"It's not as bad as it looks," she replies. And it's not. It certainly hurts, and she can't dig the bullet out herself as it's just above her shoulder blade, but the wound isn't very deep. The way blood is streaked around her body and clothes makes it look much worse than it is in actuality. The wound will only turn life threatening if she can't get the bullet removed and patched up sometime within the next few hours.

She takes a moment to really look at him. He's a little tanner from the extra sun exposure, a little leaner like he hasn't been eating quite as well, clad in an oversized button-up and jeans. His hair has gotten longer, and she thinks he has probably only cut it once or twice since she last saw him. He has shadows under his eyes, looking a bit run down. But all in all, he still looks good. Like Bruce.

He gestures to a chair in the kitchen, and she sits by the table as he brings over the medical supplies.

He reaches for the suturing thread, and Natasha asks, "Got any big ass tweezers?"

Frowning, he replies, "The bullet's still in there?"

Natasha nods. "It's not deep, don't worry. You won't have to dig for it. But I can't do it myself."

Bruce sterilizes a pair of what appear to be surgical pliers, and he asks a little too casually, "How long have you known where I am?"

She purses her lips and pauses before responding. "Going on six months."

"So pretty much the whole time," he replies dryly.

"It's been eight."

"Give or take a few weeks."

He turns to grab something from the sink. Bruce returns to her side a moment later with a warm towel and a sterile wipe. Gently, he starts to wipe the blood from her wound, and she's reminded of simpler times - years ago, now, when he'd helped patch her up in the labs of Avengers Tower and she could still count the number of times they'd been alone together on one hand.

"I don't have anything to numb the area," he warns her in a low, sympathetic voice.

She'd shrug if it wouldn't jostle her shoulder. "I'll be fine. I've had worse."

It's an echo of an old conversation, a shadow of talks they've had time and time again. Before. The reminder of their shared history after all these months is startling, and it rattles her more than a little.

"As usual, not reassuring."

Natasha is glad that he has at least picked up on the reminder.

"Thanks for doing this," she says as he reaches for the pliers and brings them toward the back of her shoulder.

"I don't think you'll be thanking me in a second," he replies dryly.

It hurts like hell when he clamps down on the bullet and pulls it free, and Natasha has to force herself to control her breathing and not make a pained noise. She thinks the all-too-calculated look on her face must betray her, though, because Bruce looks more hurt by it than she does, wincing and taking a sharp breath as he yanks the bullet free. Natasha curls her hand around the chair she's sitting on when he starts to stitch up the wound, and she focuses on other things, instead - the messy state of his open living room/kitchen combo, the sink full of empty mugs, the clutter of books on the coffee table that houses a few titles she recognizes and more that she doesn't.

"You okay?" he asks when he's finished with the last stitch.

She nods. "I'll be fine. Thanks, Bruce."

Natasha hates the way his name feels foreign on her tongue. She hasn't said it in months, even if she has thought it over and over like her favorite song on repeat.

Bruce leaves the room for a moment without explanation, and Natasha wonders briefly if she's being silently dismissed in an ultimate act of passive aggression. Of all the reactions she had thought she might receive, she didn't think completely ignoring her would be part of any of them. But he returns a couple minutes later carrying a fuzzy blue bath towel and some clothing.

"You can use my shower, if you want," he says and hands over the items. "Since you're sort of still…" he gestures vaguely at her with his hand.

She finishes for him, "Covered in blood?"

"Yeah," he agrees quietly, and Natasha wonders if it's her wounded state that has shaken him or if it is simply her sudden presence in his home.

"Thank you," she replies, and she takes the clothing and towel and heads in the direction she saw Bruce just exit from.

The house isn't large. The door leads into his bedroom, and there's an attached bathroom that she thinks is probably the only one in the place. The small house suits him, she decides. It looks well lived-in, and he seems relatively settled here. By his standards, at least, but she knows without a shadow of a doubt that he must have a go bag stashed somewhere here - probably under the bed - full of necessary items like cash and clothes and passports and maybe a gun in case he ever needs to make a quick getaway. She has a similar bag in her closet bedroom in her place upstate.

Natasha turns the knob on the shower and steps under the gentle spray, watching as the blood starts to wash away and turn the water pink at her feet before it drains. She wonders what will be waiting for her outside the bedroom door when she towels herself dry fifteen minutes later and changes into one of Bruce's t-shirts and a baggy pair of sweatpants. They haven't talked yet really, just a few jilted sentences while taking care of more pressing matters - like the fact that she was just bleeding out in the middle of his kitchen. But now she's clean and changed and no longer in mortal peril, and she has to wonder what questions he'll have ready to ask her. What his reaction will be like now that he's no longer worried about saving her life.

When she heads back into the living room a moment later, Bruce is holding a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses. He fills them and hands one to her as she approaches, and she joins him on the couch.

He shrugs at her questioning quirked brow and says, "Figured it would help with the pain."

Which kind? she wonders idly, because the stilted awkwardness that has settled between them is starting to feel much more painful than the bullet wound.

"Cheers," she says in a flat tone when she holds up her glass in salute and swallows it.

"That help?"

The 'you tell me' is ready on her lips, but she holds the words back and replies instead with a simple, "Yes."

Bruce nods.

There is an uncomfortable silence, and she sighs.

It's another long moment before Bruce finally speaks up. "What are you doing here, Natasha?"

He sounds tired.

She feels suddenly defensive. "What? I can't visit a friend?"

"Is that what I am to you?" he asks, and his voice has now taken on a slightly biting tone. "A friend?"

Natasha swallows hard. "No. Not really." Then she adds, because she can't seem to help it now that this conversation has finally been started, "Friends talk."

Bruce smiles at her, but it's not gentle or pleasant in the least. He hasn't looked at her with this much bitterness in years. "Were we ever really friends to begin with?"

The question hurts. She became closer with Bruce Banner than she ever had with another person in her life, and now he wants to pretend that they were never even friends?

Natasha keeps her face blank, but she lets the hurt leak into her tone. "I thought we were. Excuse me if I was mistaken."

Bruce shakes his head and backtracks quickly. He actually sounds apologetic now. "No, Natasha…I only meant, have we ever really been only friends?"

She forcibly holds back a sigh of relief. "No. Maybe not."

It's not like before, now. Things were verbalized and actualized between them all those months ago when everything went down with Ultron, and they can't pretend that this thing between them wasn't more than friendship. It was undeniably romantic, their feelings for each other. It had been easy to hide behind that guise of friendship, before. Friends can hold hands and hug and sometimes even flirt a little. But friends don't kiss passionately and decide to run away together. They can't fall back on their old dynamic because it has been completely obliterated. Natasha had hoped when their dynamic finally shifted that they could have something good and they could have it together. But then he ran, and all her hope for their own personal brand of a semi-fucked up happy ending disappeared without a trace when he did.

Bruce nods, and he looks tired. "So what are you doing here, exactly?"

"In Fiji or in your living room?"

He doesn't look amused.

She answers, "Solo mission. Looking into some potential HYDRA activity. But it turned out to be a dead end."

"A dead end that led to you getting shot?"

She purses her lips. "Well, maybe not a dead end. I'm honestly not sure anymore. There was nothing there to link to HYDRA. Doesn't mean they're the ones that shot me. I've got a long list of enemies." She adds at his look of concern, "Don't worry, I made sure I wasn't followed here. I wouldn't compromise you like that."

"You don't know who shot you?"

"Not so much."

Bruce presses his lips into a thin line. "Shit. Natasha..."

"There are a lot of people in the world that want me dead. You've always known that. You don't need to worry about this."

He sighs.

There's an uncomfortable silence, and neither of them seems to know how to fill it. She doesn't want to be here, not really, not if this is what it's going to be like. The painful reminder of exactly how much things have changed between them is getting more unpleasant with every passing moment. But it's getting late, and she's still healing, and she doesn't have anywhere else to go right now.

She snags the bottle of vodka from the counter and pours herself another shot, swallowing it in one go.

"Your vodka's shit, Banner."

He almost smiles in response, at least looks vaguely amused by the insult.

Bruce shrugs. "Limited resources."

She pours herself another, anyway.

Natasha takes the shot, and they again sit in silence, air charged uncomfortably between them. She wants an out, an excuse to part ways, and she is glad she doesn't have to feign the yawn she lets out a few moments later.

"Tired?" Bruce asks, and he looks relieved at the opportunity for them to leave each other's presence. Natasha hates it, even if she is feeling the same way.

"Yeah," she agrees. "Haven't slept in a while."

A while is actually going on two days now, but there's no need for him to know that.

"You should get some sleep."

She nods. "I can take the couch."

He shakes his head. "You don't need to do that, Natasha. You can take the bed, it's fine. You're the one who really needs the rest."

"Which I can do perfectly well on the couch."

Bruce sighs. "Just take the bed, Nat."

She narrows her eyes. She wants to fight him on this, but she knows she has no valid reason. She just wants to pick a fight with him because she's not done being mad at him yet. She's irritable, and her shoulder hurts, and the familiarity of the nickname he just used for her makes her want to smack him. Just the sight of him is hurting her right now, and she feels inclined to argue with just about anything he says. Natasha shakes herself.

"Fine," she agrees. "Just for the night."

He sighs in relief at her acquiescence.

"Just for the night," he echoes.

She pushes the bottle of vodka back towards him and leaves for his room. Natasha climbs into the bed and wishes she'd been able to take the couch, instead. She doesn't want to be where he sleeps every night. It's too intimate, too familiar, and the pillow smells like Bruce. It makes her think of that night on the farm when they'd shared a bed together. What it was like to lay her head on his chest and simply rest. It had been such a nice night, even after the horrors they'd endured during the day. It was the embodiment of hope, a final fleeting moment of gentility before everything turned to shit. Now the memories leave a bitter taste in her mouth.

Natasha sighs and tries to ignore the scent of him surrounding her as she falls into an uneasy sleep.