A/N: So a song I really love came on while I was writing, and if you've heard it there's a line towards the end that you might notice that I repurposed. If you don't notice it... go listen to He Llorado (Como un Nino). Apologies for the lack of proper accents there, I don't have a Spanish keyboard on my laptop :/

I've really had a lot of fun writing these two - so much fun I might have to write this pair again! Please enjoy the last chapter, and drop a review to let me know that you did :)

I swear I've seen an angel

A paradise in blue

Every color I choose

But I don't know what love is

But I think it might be you

.

.

"Hey, where'd Batsy go?" Stark asks, after they've secured Loki and they're sprawled around a table at the little Middle Eastern restaurant he'd wanted to go to.

It really is good shawarma, and Natasha's in the middle of a bite when she realizes the question was directed at her.

"Why would I know?" she shrugs, after chewing and swallowing. "Gotham, probably."

She takes another bite, but everyone's still looking at her.

"Wait, really? You don't know?" Stark is apparently the spokesperson here.

"No," Natasha says, trying for calm. "Why would you think I do?"

"Er, he liked you?"

She looks at Stark incredulously, and he tries again.

"You like him?"

If this shawarma wasn't so good she'd throw it at him. She settles for a glare, instead.

"I don't know, you kinda smiled at him when he showed up!" Stark throws his arms up.

"Oh, I see," Natasha says dryly, "I go five minutes without punching someone and I must like them."

"Yeah," Clint says next to her, and for a second she thinks he's taking Stark's side, but then he continues, "I mean, the first time we met you kicked me in the face. That's how I knew we were never meant to be."

She rolls her eyes at him and he grins, open and honest.

The conversation moves thankfully past her, since Thor has taken Clint's speech seriously, going on about someone he calls his 'Lightning Sister', and an Asgardian warrior named Lady Sif who Natasha thinks she definitely needs to meet.

Stark and Clint are just falling about laughing, and Banner and Rogers are attempting to explain Earth customs, and she takes another bite of shawarma and thinks that this is all very strange, but also kind of nice.

She only misses the Bat a little.

It's Natasha that gets sent to Stark Tower by Fury the next day in order to attempt to drag him to a debriefing session, because she's apparently the best equipped to deal with Stark. It's true, but it doesn't mean she likes it.

The elevator is taking an extremely long time to show up, which she knows is entirely on purpose. Hoping that Stark is just waiting on her facade to crack a little, she sighs loudly and looks around the lobby, feigning impatience.

Her gaze catches on someone just walking in. It's Bruce.

He sees her immediately, but for the first time since they've met he doesn't try anything. There are no fake smiles or unreadable masks.

He hides nothing, and she can only stare.

It's obvious now that he's out of Gotham. New York offers him no shadows to shelter in. She's almost ashamed of herself for not figuring it out already, but instead she feels a quiet vindication. She's met someone who can beat her at her own game.

He's looking back at her evenly, waiting for her move. They're two of the same, and he knows that she's figured it out.

"Were you already in New York?"

"I had a business meeting with Stark," he says, "before… all this."

She nods as the elevator finally arrives. He lets her get on first, and she waits until he's in before she presses the button they both need.

They both stand with backs against the wall, facing straight forward, not looking at each other.

"And now?" she asks, curiously.

"Now… we might have a few other things to discuss."

Although she's still only watching him in the periphery, she can see how stiffly he's holding himself, knuckles white where they're gripping the handrail.

Natasha feels warm all over, inexplicably nervous.

"How is Alfred?"

He relaxes, minutely.

"Cranky."

She lifts a brow, and risks shooting him a glance. Their eyes meet, and then just as quickly turn away again.

"Apparently," Bruce says, "I'm not appreciative enough of his cooking."

She doesn't doubt that it's Alfred that's nagged him into taking this risk, into coming to the Tower, and she's immensely grateful.

"Well," she says, "if it helps, I'm willing to come by and compliment his cooking anytime."

His head jerks up, just a little. Natasha might have felt pleased about startling him if her blood hadn't been rushing so loudly in her ears.

"I was under the impression," he speaks slowly, carefully, as if testing every word before it leaves his mouth, "that you didn't…"

He trails off. She's not sure if he can't find the right word, or if he can't bring himself to say it. She decides to spare him.

"No, I do," she tells him, and their eyes gravitate towards each other again.

She understands, now, why she could never get a read on him before. The thing with people like her - like Bruce - is that they live their lives precisely. Their guards are never down unless they wish it, and when they are, every small concession feels like baring their souls.

In his expression, she sees everything she expected, and everything she'd hoped for, and she assumes he sees the same in hers.

They can't look at each other like this for long. It's too much. For both of them. All too soon, their eyes are redirected elsewhere, but she can't help the smile that's tugging at the corners of her mouth, and she can see, on the edge of her periphery, that he's struggling with the same problem.

When the elevator reaches the level of Stark's workshop, she hesitates to move. Bruce takes a half-step forward, and then pauses to look at her.

"Shall we?" he asks, tilting his head.

She doesn't have to say anything. Her smile is giddy and bright, like a child who sees the sun in the summertime, and his own, which blooms slowly in response, is no less genuine in its mimicry.

She reaches out, steals his hand from his side, and leads him from the elevator.

He doesn't try to take it back.