#avianink

AO3

Fanfiction

Summary: As far as Natasha's aware, her plans for February 14th this year consist of running errands and lunch with her partner. Post-AoU, canon divergence in which Hulk did not sail off into the bowels of the cosmos.

Notes: You might be wondering why I'm posting a Valentine's Day fic in June. The answer is triple-pronged: (1) you all have been very patient, you deserve something light and sweet, (2) this is from a collection of unposted fics written 1-4 years ago that I decided to try and salvage instead of flinging into the bowels of the cosmos (where Bruce/Hulk didn't belong), and (3) because I want to, as Brucenat fans are always in need of more joy.

Preview

Preview continues under the cut.

Nestled between some corporate office building and a rival residential complex, the refuge of her apartment awaited her. The quaint cafe across the street bursted with bodies—more so than any cafe within walking distance of Central Park did on a typical day. A few couples and families gradually dispersed from the Jewish center on the corner. Cars congested the street, their drivers extra impatient today, judging by the incessant cacophony of horns.

With a bag of pharmaceutical supplies slung over her wrist and two sandwiches from one of the many nearby delis tucked under her arm, she retrieved her apartment keys with swift hands and escaped the restless city streets. As always, out of a perpetual distrust and skepticism of elevators, she took the stairs up to her unit’s floor.

You all are long overdue for a little fic. :)

Now, when I say little, I mean little. Under 200 words. There's more, lengthier work coming. For now, have this moment of Bruce napping on Nat's lap.

Read on for a tumblr-exclusive Brucenat flash story

Any BruceNat/Hulkwidow fans still on here?

If there are, and you're interested in BruceNat fics, see the end of this post.

AO3

Fanfiction

Note: Fanfiction is currently only on chapter 2/3 because I regained access to it later than I did my AO3 account.

Summary: Sequel to "Reflections in Plain Sight." Bruce was honest about how he feels. Now Natasha needs to be honest about how she feels. Two little problems: Bruce has disappeared, and Natasha is now married to someone else.

Day 5: shopping

It’s not technically day 6, what are you talking about, you go to bed

I have no idea where this idea came from. Enjoy! Also if you sent me a message (1) you’re lovely and (2) I’m not ignoring you I’ve just barely been at my computer

The Umbrella

She found it much like she found this love: on accident. It, however, was on display in a South Korean store and not a corner of Kolkata. Surprises came in all shapes, sizes, and places.

Unsurprisingly, Bruce was asleep by the time she got home. There’d been an admirable attempt to stay up until her arrival—that much was evident in the abandoned Netflix homepage on the TV, the wrinkled dress shirt and slacks—but there he was, knocked out on the sectional. The back of the couch supported his head, which was craned all the way back, but it could do nothing about his mouth, which was wide open.

It wasn’t a disappointment—if anything, it was a relief. Fifteen hours on a plane—one that was delayed twice—would defeat anyone, herself included. There was nothing more appealing than leaving her bag at the door, circumventing another set of stairs, and falling asleep beside him.

So that was exactly what she did. She didn’t change, but she did extract his gift from her luggage and place it on the coffee table before settling down. Bruce stirred when she propped a pillow under his tilted neck. That came with some incomprehensible, fatigued but happy mumbling, and, best of all, the readjusting of his position so both of them were horizontal on the couch with him curved around her. After that, she could rest. Seldom had sleep come so swiftly.

⊗

The nuzzle of a nose and caress of warm breath on the nape of her neck were what she awoke to. The comfort of him against her was more vivid—and welcome—than the fuzzy grain on her unbrushed teeth, the staleness of her clothes, the sliminess of her own tongue. She avoided the taste of the lattermost by sighing through by suppressing a yawn by sighing through her nose.

“Welcome back,” he said to the back of her head.

As she straightened, stretched her spine, and cracked open her eyes to daylight, she hummed her recognition. He unwound his grasp so they could start the process of preparing for the day. They affixed themselves into an upright position, one where he could see the box waiting for his notice.

“What is that?”

“A gift,” she said, scooching to rest against the cushions behind her. That left an open path from him to the black box covered in rainbow splashes and Korean characters.

Something in his back cracked when he leaned to retrieve it. Seeking to spoil the surprise, he asked, “What is it?”

She jabbed his ribs with her foot. “That’s why you open it.”

That elicited a lopsided grin for her cherishing. The smile persisted as he deduced how to open the packaging.

“What—” He brandished the cylindrical apparatus, which a plastic film covered. As he shed that transparent layer, he commented, “It’s...an umbrella?”

“It changes colors.”

“It—” He looked at her as though she’d just told him Tony figured out how to breathe in space. “How?” Before she could hazard a guess, the ribs of the umbrella bloomed, revealing a canopy of limpid droplets in the middle of their living room. He scrutinized the underside, perhaps in search of wires or a source of magic.

She clarified, “It needs to be wet.”

His head snapped toward the nearest window, which displayed a cloudless day. Instead of deflating, he turned his gaze toward their bedroom upstairs. Then he was off, rushing to the stairs and taking them two at a time. Whatever mad science he had in mind, she wanted to witness it. She got up and followed his hurried steps.

She found him and the open umbrella in their shower.

“Bruce—” Confronted with the beautiful absurdity of it—of him fully clothed, barefoot, watching the canopy like it was a fire burning during a storm—she couldn’t help but laugh. The dozens of droplets underwent their transformation from transparency to a spectrum of variegation.

As far as she was concerned, the real miracle was his smile, the beaming expression fuelled by the elation he couldn’t contain. “This is amazing!”

She couldn’t resist. Chuckling, she shed her socks and joined him.

He greeted her with a warm, “Thank you.”

AO3 and Fanfiction links included!

Thank you to everyone who expressed interest!

Link to AO3 series

As It Should Be

AO3 | Fanfiction

Run With It

AO3 | Fanfiction

catharsis

AO3 | Fanfiction

It’s Always You

AO3 | Fanfiction

The Umbrella

AO3 | Fanfiction

Realignment

AO3 | Fanfiction

Space Trip Overture

Day 3: Music

catharsis

Despite how deeply he sleeps, part of him feels impervious to rest, like there’s a fire alarm constructed within himself. It’s not intrusive, it’s just there—a side effect of how much he’s conditioned and trained his own physiology—ready to intercept any green flare-ups or nightmares Natasha may have. That’s what alerts him on nights like this, when he awakens to find Nat upright, shuddering and slick from a cold sweat.

“Hey,” he whispers, pushing himself out of the covers, orienting himself right beside her. He doesn’t need the light, nor does he want it, to know what she looks like right now, to know the distance in her eyes. “I’m here. I’m right here with you, Nat.”

But she’s not here. The terror has her in tangles; it’s revoked her voice and the ground beneath her feet. It’s flung her from their home into every place and time she doesn’t want to be.

Touching her could bring her home or push her further away. That’s the fickle beast of trauma. They both know it well. It doesn’t make it any less painful or any easier to see her like this—and that’s the cruelty of it. He tries to beat it with careful thought. He wards off his own anxiety with an adamant reminder of what she needs, and that’s not the both of them freaking out.

It’s like he’s staring at an integral with a complexity of components when a notion strikes him, vague but sure like distant thunder. He acts on it, shifting to grab something from the bedside table and assuring her, “I’m not going anywhere.”

In a matter of moments, he returns with his headphones and cell in hand. When the device awakens, light blasts forth from the screen, the hour 3 AM glares at him and he silences it by dimming the brightness and opening his music app. In the meantime, he fumbles with his headphones, switching them on and waiting for it to find the bluetooth signal to anchor it. Patience is usually one of his strong suits, but that goes out the window when the person he loves is trapped within an internal hellscape. He curses technology for not being instantaneous.

The headphones connect as he queues up his post-transformation playlist. Though a pang cracks his chest apart as he angles himself toward her and her blatant suffering, gentle hope effervesces in his stomach.

He prefaces his intentions before acting upon them. “I’m gonna put some headphones on you—is that okay?”

The dim, digitized luminescence outlines her enough to show the silhouette of her head, how it slightly nods.

He does what he told her he would. Without grazing any unnecessary part of her, he eases the padded muffs over her ears, settles the band on her skull.

Before proceeding, he provides every opportunity for her input, be that denial or encouragement. “I’m gonna play some music. Some, uh—” He refers to the playlist, “Puccini. Okay?”

When no response comes, his thumb hesitates above the screen. He hovers above an aria from an opera he’s never seen, suspended in the fear of making some terrible mistake. The horrors within her own mind revoke everything except basic somatic functions. They don’t even give her the option to respond. He has to depend on how he knows her.

He presses on the song. The noise and its effects are invisible to him. Seconds creep by across the play bar that tracks the song’s progress. He tries not to fixate on that, but her. If there’s any sign of discomfort, of any kind of pain, he’ll abort this whole endeavor. Whatever it takes to return her peace of mind, he’ll do.

At one minute and 57 seconds, her shaking stops. He peeks at the queue of songs to come, on the lookout for nasty surprises even where there will be none. When he clicks back, it’s two minutes and seventeen seconds, and Natasha breathes. She seizes control of the inhale, holds onto it for three seconds, then releases. This process repeats until the song ends and flips over to Bellini.

They sit there. She recovers. He refuses to nod off even for a second. He counts the beats of her breaths and tries to be as here for her as possible.

Honestly, after posting some of my thoughts about Endgame, I expected a bunch of people to unfollow (I wouldn’t blame you). But the opposite as happened, actually? So hello to the newcomers! Welcome to this little corner of the internet, where the walls are covered with Brucenat fanfiction, headcanons, and pictures of the Marvel ladies being badasses. My inbox is always open! Thank you for following ❤

This vignette is for day two: travel!

Run With It

He watches as Natasha packs, quickly approaching the last second of pre-departure. There have been so many opportunities—much better opportunities—for him to ask this, but they’ve come and gone. In the wake of his persistent self-guessing and hesitation, he’d squandered those chances and left himself with this. This, which is now the single chance he has left.

The fact that he feels ridiculous even before speaking doesn’t help with his phrasing or tone, “How would you feel about...um...”

She’s paused what’s she’s doing to look at him in wait. There’s no going back.

“What do you think about driving to Clint and Laura’s?”

This is the epitome of last minute—the worst time to ask. They’d already arranged a flight. Driving would be inefficient, excessive, a time sink. He’s thought of those responses and more, and he won’t be upset if she brings up any one of them. The thing is, it’s her he’s asking, not anyone else, and she reminds him of what a magnificent enigma she can be, how she can and will always be able to surprise him.

Arms crossed over her chest, she responds with a purposeful nonchalance, “Sounds like a road trip.”

Unsure of what else to say, he offers dumbly, “Yeah.”

“Like the kind of thing you see in movies—music, fast food…”

He fills in the rest with what he’s imagined, “Sightseeing, open roads—maybe a bed and breakfast or something.” He catches himself before he gets too entangled in the daydream of it. “I don’t know.”

“I do.” She grins. It’s a variation of a dreamcatcher, where she snags the doubts that could make a moment like this less luminous. She absolutely beams, even through the softest of her expressions. “Let’s do it.”

The gears in his brain jolt to a halt. The shock renders him speechless, capable only of making faces that display his malfunctioning mind.

Completely aware of what’s unfolding in his head, she takes the reins and outlines the path forward and out. “You call Clint, I’ll call Pepper, we’ll pack some more stuff and head out.”

“Um…” He sputters, refreshes his mind. “We’re gonna need a road map.”

She smirks as she turns back to her bag. “That’s your job.”

He recovers enough to tease her, “Aren’t you supposed to be the expert navigator?”

A sock bundle smacks him square between the shoulders as he walks away. He looks back to tell her, “Nice shot.”