The Trial of Bruce Banner

Well Laid Plans

Natasha makes her way to the closet with a bundle of hangers on her arm, laying out her plan for the week- or rather, the month.

She sorts hoodies apart from the tees and color codes the socks.

The exhaustion on display under her eyelids is irrelevant as she tips forward and holds onto the frame of the closet before continuing with a forced smirk;

"...and then there's Becks. Her performance is on the 18th."

Bruce hasn't stirred from on top of their bed in his seated position. He swallows and finally releases a pair of tiny socks he's been holding on tightly to.

"The 18th huh," he mutters for clarification.

"It's black tie," Natasha taps the side of the doorframe and steps back into the room to snatch up another handful of folded laundry.

"For a children's dance recital," he cracks his knuckles.

"Yes,' she jokes, 'so you better look spiffy. Plan on blocking off this weekend for the next four years at minimum. She loves her class."

He brushes the leg draped over the side of the bed against the floor and lets his head fall with half an exhale.

"Well,' her head tilts, stealing the socks next to sort a section of Rebecca's wardrobe in Natasha's closet, 'technically recital isn't until spring; May 15th,"

"Is it..." he asks in order to continue the conversation despite his mind being elsewhere.

"And I have a mission Friday. Friday through Tuesday so it's just the two of you."

"Nat?"

There's hesitation in lifting her focus, slowly closing the excessively sorted sock drawer.

"And then there's,' she continues without a pause, 'my Chile debrief in March."

"Nat," Bruce calls her softly with his mouth contorted, "can we take one day at a time? There's an hour left of this one."

Romanoff lifts an eyebrow she's quick to lower and taps her tongue to the roof of her mouth as she nods slowly.

"Yeah,' she clears her throat and flicks on the light switch to the bathroom mirror, 'what do you want to do with that hour? Christmas is sneaking up on us-."

"-Honestly?"

She sniffles an inhale and reaches for a small cream filled jar. She dabs her middle and fourth fingers inside of it to brush it under her eyelids, "Tell me."

"I want to hold you."

Natasha caps her jar and pauses.

The spy spins the cap back onto it and reaches for her toothbrush, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. She looks up into the mirror and half rolls her eyes, "That's a waste of an hour."

"It's not for me."

She spots him staring back at her as she spit awkwardly into the sink and dabs her wrist against her mouth.

Natasha forces a laugh, "I've already stayed up way too late. You're out of your mind if you think I'm staying awake until midnight."

Bruce scoffs, tapping the open space on the bed beside him, "I'm not sleeping anytime soon."

Natasha makes her way into the room and reaches for a chapstick on her nightstand. She's delaying curling up next to him for her own reasons, well aware of how fast her mind is racing and the paths she's purposefully sending it down.

"Clint has a woodworking class he wants us both to attend. He wants you to be proficient enough to build us a new house in two years."

"Of course he does," Bruce lays his head over his pillow on top of the sheets.