A/N: Hi peeps. So this movie sort of broke my feels? Kinda? And I wasn't sure about B/N, but now I'm totally on this ship. Like, I'm the captain, I'm so on. :D

Title comes from OneRepublic's Secrets.

Disclaimer: If I owned this movie, Cap would have totally said "ASSEMBLE" at the end of the movie. But he didn't. *sadface*

Please review!

Natasha wakes with a scream at the tip of her tongue.

(instead all that comes out is a strangled gasp, because they have trained her better than this)

"Nat?" someone mumbles blearily. "Natasha, you okay?"

(but no no no her name isn't Natasha it's Natalia because "What kind of Russian name is Natasha?" and where is her gun it should be right here and why is it dark why is she in a bed why isn't she in the Red Room what about her test what about her exam where is she?)

The mothertongue slips from her mouth, easy as marbles.

"What?" the someone says, clearer now, sounding confused. "I can't understand—" There's a creak, like standing up from a chair, and footsteps.

(she can't find her gun, but she readies herself with all she's learned about hand-to-hand, which is a lot, coming from who taught her)

And then the face swims into her vision—

(and he looks so much like her target, and she remembers him, kneeling on the hardwood of the ballet studio, a blindfold 'round his eyes and his hands tied)

"Natasha?" he says.

(and it's not a panicked grunt, it's not that awful choked sound he made as he died, it's her name, and she knows with a grim sense of satisfaction that he has come back to haunt her)

Her mind snaps back in place a second too late to see Banner standing over her.

She memorizes the sight of him to still her shaking hands. He's in a pair of old jeans and a faded t-shirt that says Culver on it, and those stupid STARK slippers that Tony got him last Christmas. He's got his glasses on, but even without them she can see his face is doing that worried thing that she secretly thinks is adorable, where his eyebrows draw together and his mouth goes tight.

He is familiar: a palpable relief, one that clenches in her chest and slows her racing heart.

"Are you alright?" he asks her.

"Yeah, just peachy," she says weakly. Her voice still comes out hoarse even though she didn't actually scream, and as she raises her hand to her eyes she is horrified to find them wet.

"Just a dream," she mumbles, wiping away the salt. "Sorry I woke you."

"Nightmare," he corrects softly. "It's fine"—he sighs, grabbing a chair—"I was supposed to be reading over something for Fury, anyway."

"Oh, yeah?" She slides a little out of the blankets and props herself up on one arm, trying to look interested. "More gamma?"

"Natasha." She curses inwardly at the tone of his voice. It's the same he used at Calcutta, at Clint's house—quiet and cutting her to the bone. "You're deflecting."

She ignores it. "I'm a spy, it's what I do best," she tells him, rolling her eyes.

He snorts. "You're not in an interrogation room."

She raises an eyebrow. "You're making it feel like one."

His faint smile fades to nothing. In the dimly lit room, the lines on his face look deeper. "I'm sorry," he says ruefully, and all at once she is, too: who else would understand the glare of questioning reporters and secretive S.H.I.E.L.D. agents like Bruce Banner?

Her jaw clenches and releases, once.

"The Red Room," she mutters, slanting her eyes away. "The ballet studio, the instructors watching my every move, the gun in my hands—"

"Stop," he cuts her off. "Stop it." He's looking at the sheets, not at her face, and it takes her a moment to realize that her hands are shaking again.

He lets out a slow exhale. "I didn't mean to push you," he says gently. His gaze flicks back up to her own, and in his dark eyes she can see some of the reason why he became a doctor. He's practically an expert at this—calming people down—but it makes her wonder how many times he'd had to use his own technique on himself.

She drops her eyes. "When I first joined S.H.I.E.L.D.," she begins, "I met Coulson." She hears him pull in a sharp, quiet breath, and tries to imagine the pain ripple over his expression.

(Unfortunately, she has a very good imagination. Banner still blames himself for a lot of things, a lot of the time.)

"He was . . . kind, to me," she continues, feeling a smile pull at her lips. "I didn't understand why. Back then, I didn't know what a huge dork he was. Of course I thought he was a hopeless American. Too idealistic, always putting others before himself." She remembers his neatly combed hair and impeccable suits, the way his eyes shone when he smiled. "Anyway, he, uh, suggested I see some psychologists, because of my—brainwashing." The word comes out low. She tells herself not to be ashamed of the truth.

"One time . . . ." She breathes a halfhearted laugh. "One time I actually went, and the guy told me that talking about your problems helps."

She chances to glance up at Banner. The intensity of his gaze almost surprises her, because he watches her like she's some kind of treasure—awe-inspiring, breathtaking. Like she's a diamond, maybe, or gold. He looks at her like she's the Statue of Liberty, like she's freedom molded into a sculpture shipped from 5,000 miles away.

Which is funny, since she's Russian. Liberty is not necessarily a word in her vocabulary.

"But," she says, smiling tightly, "I'm not so sure telling you helped at all."

"It helped me," he blurts out, then looks away, bites his lip as if he's embarrassed. "Um—I mean—"

He sighs heavily. "You are so strong, you know that?" he asks her. "Sometimes, I just wonder . . . I wonder if you have a weakness. And then you tell me things, like—like the Red Room, back at the safe house, and I think, she's so fragile. It's a paradox. A contradiction. Unscientific. Just like Project Lullaby—it's not supposed to work."

He pauses to look back up at her again.

"And yet," he murmurs, "somehow, it turns out beautifully."