So...here's Bruce...who is really nice. :)

Sorry that this fic is so chock-full of Tony. I love him. I can't help it.

Natasha

Bruce, or "The Nice Guy"

Bruce was, admittedly, the happiest with the Avengers than he'd been in a long time. Probably forever.

This was, in two words, due to a man named Tony Stark.

He set the record, trying to tick him off every five seconds, sparking him on the Helicarrier and – telling him he could control the other guy.

It was sort of…as if someone had faith in him. Someone who was, without a doubt, completely messed up himself.

They were all messed up.

That was why being "dragged back into this freak show" was something he thought he might, eventually, be comfortable with.

What he wasn't comfortable with was how he'd almost killed Natasha. And it wasn't the other guy, it was him. His fault. He had been…so angry.

Bruce tried to apologize, but she just raised her eyebrows and shrugged. He read the message: I do stuff like that every day, problem with that?

Still, he tried to make it up to her in small ways, never bothering her like Tony did or asking about her past or pointing out that "duh, Clint likes you". Instead, he stayed quiet, and she always found the hazelnut creamer for her coffee next to its cup when she came up from the training room in the mornings.

And one of the most important things on his quest to Be Nice to Natasha was also the first thing that suggested exactly how many layers of messed up Tony's life was.

No touching.

Natasha was better at hiding it – a lifetime of training must have done it for her. But once he noticed it in Stark, it didn't take him long to see it in her, too.

One evening Tony walked into the kitchen glaring at anything that moved. Bruce didn't dare to ask what the matter was, but when he stomped away from Pepper, it was too much.

Pepper grabbed his wrist, pulling him back. "Tony –"

She never got to finish her sentence.

Tony jerked away, almost tripping over a chair before Pepper yanked him upright. He flinched, straining away from her grip. His brown eyes were wide and held no mockery, no sarcasm, no recognition. Her hand froze on his arm.

"Tony." He blinked.

"Please let me go."

Tony left the room. Pepper spent the rest of the afternoon in a corner with her head in her hands, breathing in the steam from a mug of tea Bruce had placed in front of her. The whole episode had lasted about five seconds, but Bruce would never forget the helpless look in Tony's eyes. He knew that he could easily have broken away from her, but in a few seconds he'd forgotten he had the strength to do so.

Natasha was the same. She'd learned to control the reaction; all she did was freeze in place before attacking with what was perhaps her most deadly weapon – the glare. Bruce quickly learned not to bother her when she was doing something, or even to enter a room if she was sleeping in it. She had an agent's hearing and didn't startle as easily as Stark, but it was still terrifying to see the almost imperceptible flinch and realize just how dangerous the Black Widow was.

And when he was terrified, his heart rate went up…

It wasn't until Fury called her in on a mission that he saw what he'd begun to understand spelled out in front of him. Natasha walked out of the elevator a different person – hair shining, skin reeking of perfume, eyes darting around the room with a small, satisfied smile on her lipstick-gleaming lips. She looked like a princess.

She was wearing a red sleeveless dress that touched the floor, a gauzy scarf wrapped around her arms. Tony stepped up behind her and touched her bare shoulder, as if to escort her to the door. She went still and, very slowly, turned her head to meet his eyes, giving him an I-am-disappointed-in-your-lack-of-intellect look. The Black Widow was staring Tony in the face. "You do know I have roughly one hundred ways to kill you? Right now. Twenty seconds." She tilted her head, as if considering. "Give or take a bit."

Stark backed away. Natasha smiled sweetly and moved to get her chauffeur.

He read her file. He knew what she'd done before – used her beauty, her persuasion to get information or murder, making them let their guard down, changing herself to fit a cover again and again. He'd shuddered while reading it. What kind of person would stoop to something like that?

She must have hated it.

No red clothes. No intimacy. No emotion.

Bruce made a mental note to never tick off Natasha.