A/N: Okay, I swear I sat down to write something else, and... this happened instead. Whoops. On the bright side, it is almost completely finished! The next two chapters just need some editing, and the last two are mostly written, so we'll have five chapters total :)

As far as timeframe, this starts sometime after Nat worked for Stark, but before the Avengers. Let's say it's while Clint and Coulson are in New Mexico, because they're mysteriously absent the first three chapters.

I don't know what love is

If I can't have you here

I don't know what love is

I think that it's just fear

.

.

Natasha Romanoff is an expert in smiles. She knows how to use them, and she knows how to read them. Which is why she knows that 'Brucie' Wayne isn't enjoying himself at this party.

He clearly wants everyone to think he is, judging by the two women on his arms, and the full glass of champagne he's holding, but his smiles are all shallow facades.

He's not who she's been assigned to follow tonight, but she finds herself watching him as much as she watches her target, wondering what that smile might hide.

By the last hour of the party, she has the information she needs, and she's only hanging around because Bruce is inexplicably still there, too. The two women on his arms earlier had left at some point, and she's not sure why he hadn't gone with them. It had certainly seemed to be his intent.

He's sitting alone by the bar when she slides onto the seat next to him. The bartender remembers what she ordered earlier and slides another down to her, and then she turns and gives Bruce a smile of her own – inviting, but not overly so.

He takes it.

"That's quite a drink," he says, speech drawling.

He's not wrong. She is drinking straight vodka.

"I have a high tolerance," Natasha says with a wink as she takes a swallow. It's good; whoever put on this party did not spare expense on the liquor.

"Party's almost over, y'know."

She glances over at him, arching one brow.

"And I can't enjoy it until the last minute?"

He smiles widely, sloppily. This one's not real, either.

"I'll drink to that."

She raises her glass to meet his.

"Where did your other companions go?"

There's the tiniest shift in his expression, but Natasha can't decide what it means.

"Ah," he says lazily, "they're models. Needed their beauty sleep."

He's not actually lying, and it intrigues her. Her attention is not usually so easily captured, and by such a man.

Bruce Wayne is one of the richest men in the world (and also the most generous, if you do enough digging), but by all accounts in the publicized media, he is one of the most dissolute, as well. She knows better than to rely on anything other than her own impressions, obviously, but media portrayal can be telling.

Her observations tonight have not been complete enough for her to form a good picture, and it frustrates her. They've been at this party five hours; she should have been able to make a full character report by now.

"What's your name?" Bruce interrupts her thoughts.

"Natalia," she says, not bothering with a last name.

"Natalia," he repeats, his voice dropping as he says it slowly. Natasha shivers imperceptibly. Maybe she shouldn't have used this alias. It's one of her more personal names, and the way he's savoring it in his mouth is affecting her far more than she'd like to admit.

"Well," he continues, his eyes turning dark, "what are you doing with the rest of your night?"

Natasha glances at him over the rim of her drink as she takes another sip, considering. It doesn't take long for her to decide.

"That depends on what you suggest."

Bruce's smile is more genuine than any other she's seen on his face tonight as he extends his hand to her.

He's very muscular, which isn't too surprising; he's a billionaire, and she's sure he has a personal trainer.

What does surprise her are the scars.

The lights are off as they undress, as she pretends to stumble a little trying to find the bed, hands busy exploring, but she knows what scars feel like.

She has enough of her own to know that at least one is from a bullet, and several more from knives, and broken bones.

"Had a few adventures?" she asks, keeping her voice light as her fingers softly slide down his side and over the uneven skin there.

She feels his slight hesitation before he kisses her again, stalling.

"I could say the same about you," he tells her neck, nipping lightly, and she feels his fingers circling the bullet wound above her navel.

Interesting, she thinks, but she files it away for later.

There's only one thing she wants to think about now, she decides, and with a gentle shove, she pushes Bruce back on the bed.

She pretends to doze, after, until he moves to get up.

She slides a hand through the sheets after his departing arm, mumbling something incomprehensive, and he twists to look down at her, and smiles.

Natasha keeps her eyes half-lidded, but what she does see makes her breath catch in her throat. This is his real smile, and now she sees why it has never made an appearance before. It's soft and open, vulnerable and delicate.

Natasha knows, instantly, that everything the rest of the world thinks they know about Bruce Wayne is wrong.

His eyes are gentle as he brushes a strand of her hair over her shoulder.

"I'll be back," he says, but she knows it is a lie.

She also knows he hates saying it.

But she doesn't call him out on it. She makes a satisfied humming sound, and lets her lids close again, feigning sleep once more.

Bruce pulls the covers up over her before he leaves.

The door shuts behind him, and she lets herself wonder about Bruce Wayne.

She hasn't had such a difficult time figuring someone out since Stark. It would bother her, but she likes a challenge.

And maybe she likes the side benefits, too, she thinks, with a smile, as she drifts into a real sleep.

She makes herself sleep an hour later than she is accustomed to the next morning, because most people don't wake up at half-past four in the morning.

She can't make herself stay in bed later, however, or she'll get a headache from coffee withdrawals. It's a liability to be dependent on such a little thing, she knows, but when she has the luxury, she allows it.

When she goes to take a shower, there are clothes waiting for her on the vanity, in her size, with the tags still on them. Her shower is quick, and when she pulls them on, she's impressed. They're comfortable, and they fit well.

She isn't at all surprised to find Bruce absent when she awoke, but she has no shortage of curiosity as to where he could have gone, and is disappointed that he's not there.

In the hall, her nose picks up the smell of breakfast, and she follows it to a kitchen, where a gray-haired man in an apron is flipping pancakes on the stove. There's also a coffeepot gurgling away on the counter next to him.

She clears her throat, and the man turns, smiling when he sees her.

"Good morning," he says, genuine kindness wrapped in a British accent. "You have excellent timing; these are just about done. Do have a seat."

Natasha obeys, sitting at one of the stools around the table. He plates a few pancakes, and slides them over to her. Syrup and butter quickly follow, and then a large mug of coffee.

She skips the rest in favor of a long drink of her favorite beverage, and sighs in contentment at the quality of the brew.

"Good?"

"Wonderful, thank you…"

He takes the hint.

"It's Alfred, my dear. I'm Mr. Wayne's butler."

"I see," Natasha says, smiling, "then I suppose it's you I probably have to thank for my clothes today."

"No need to thank me," he says, but she can tell he's pleased. "You wear them quite well."

"Alfred!" she cries, teasingly. He turns away, but she sees the corners of his mouth curve up.

She's had enough coffee now to start on her pancakes, and she digs straight in, with a hum of appreciation. Alfred really is a very good chef.

"Any chance I could convince you to cook me breakfast every day?" she asks, not entirely joking.

"I'm afraid not," he says seriously, but his eyes twinkle back at her in amusement.

"That leaves me no choice, then," Natasha says, in between bites, "I'll just have to marry you."

"Ah, I'm far too old for you," he says, with a chuckle.

She doesn't know how old he is, but she's pretty sure she's had sex with men older than him, so she just smiles and shrugs.

"Can I get the recipe, then?" she asks.

"Family secret," he proclaims.

"I'm doomed to disappointment," she sighs, drawing another laugh from the butler.

She's finished the pancakes by now, and all that's left is a few sips of coffee. Despite Alfred's friendliness, she doesn't feel like hanging around. She knows it would be an imposition on whatever his normal duties entail, and it seems Bruce has decided not to appear while she's there.

Alfred calls her a ride when she's done with her coffee, and she wishes him a fond farewell.

"Farewell to you too, Miss Romanova," he says. "And I do hope to see you again soon."

He sounds entirely sincere, and it's only much later that she realizes she never told him her last name.

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