Friends With the Monster

Train Trails

The infamous Bruce Banner, a genius with 7 PhDs, is currently amusing himself with origami from the leftover scraps of a punched train ticket. His folded dog is nothing short of amazing to the young girl about five in the seat behind him. In addition to her age, Natasha has picked up on an accent, her Pre-School's location, and where one of her two moms are from.

Bruce Banner is currently being hunted for having the genes of a green rage monster coursing through his veins and is using his time on board the train to make the young girl behind him smile with folded paper.

There's no diagnosis for such an act. Perhaps it falls under the category of 'people pleaser'. Nevertheless, Natasha's mission driven analysis is suddenly at a halt.

Something deep rooted at her core stops her from pulling apart his sincere interactions. The draft in her head takes a pause- amused for selfish reasons over his tender nature seeping through on their long train ride to Georgia.

He loves kids.

The crane, then the frog. Thankfully the folded dog seems to be the last for the sake of Natasha's ringing ears due to the child's squeals. He hands the folded ticket to the young girl who takes it gingerly within her grasp. The child analyzes every fold and settles back into her seat for good this time.

The spy considers instigating him, by lying and saying he still needs the ticket holding no actual personal information.

The doctor reminds her of Clint with his unbelievable patience when it comes to smaller humans. Or in Bruce's case, any human Natasha has witnessed him interact with. The hunted 'menace' could be taking revenge on the world for misunderstanding his essence. Instead, he finds solace in giving. In kindness.

Her head tilts over his soft eye. Maybe not every man merits her automatic mistrust. Maybe a handful could be good.

Natasha tries not to scoff too loudly, finding herself staring when his focus shifts onto the spy.

She crosses a knee, hesitant to address the man.

He shrugs.

It's as if he understands her without a need for dialogue. It's a sensation somewhere in between refreshing and absolutely nerve wrecking for Natasha.

She clears her throat with no intention of opening conversation and fixates out a blurry window with the sights of the east coast. For now, it's a foggy mess of trees.

The Black Widow is barely aware of her walls slipping as her head falls back against her chair.

Falling asleep for a daytime power nap with an asset of his caliber sitting close isn't typically a luxury while on this sort of mission. But her subconscious is doing the steering, finding a bit of trust deep in her core.

In the absolute worst case scenario, he tries to run and she'll take him down before he can jump.

As for the best case scenario?

Natasha twitches in her exhausted state, giving him one final glance.

Her mind is providing just enough to provide reason number one million and one why men should not be trusted, dreaming of a distant memory. It's a distant memory of her 'father', turning both her and her sister over to Dreykov.

When she opens her eyes 47 minutes and 3 seconds later with a sharp inhale, Natasha finds herself underneath a black jacket that doesn't belong to her. It's warm, wool maybe. She doesn't get cold but it's comforting nonetheless.

Bruce is missing across from her but the backpack and jacket assures her that he couldn't have gone far.

Romanoff's shoulders lift to adjust the jacket closer to her chin as she glances out of the window toward the now dark navy sky.