Betty
Remarkably, Bruce was having a perfectly normal day. No radical rescue missions or group sojourns to the hospital or drunken reveals of secret identities, which likely had something to do with Tony blowing off school, claiming “hotdog relapse”, but who’s to say for certain. Ironically, at this point, those things probably did constitute a normal day for Bruce.
Regardless of the technicalities, Bruce was enjoying his state of peace and quiet. That is until the final bell rang and Thor appeared before him, and Bruce instantly knew his calm was now but a distant memory.
“Banner, hello! I know you take issue when I “drive without a license” or allow my brother, who is “a child”, to drive, so I asked Loki to drive me to school and then return home in one of those mysterious cars with the German title you summoned by way of cell phone.” Thor grinned and thrust the keys in Bruce’s direction.
Oddly enough, the gesture felt thoughtful. Thor had remembered Bruce’s preferences, even if they just happened to be obeying traffic laws, and took steps to insure them. Bruce accepted the keys and slid into the driver's seat. “And Loki helped you? Willingly?
“Of course not, but I promised to buy him the finest skirt in all the mall as compensation for his ‘strenuous labor’.”
“Wow, that kid really drives a hard bargain.”
“Oh yes. Once, Loki so out argued my father’s favorite lawyer, the man quit his occupation and became a professional mime. Now he acts at children's birthday celebrations rather than arguing acquittal for supposed war criminals and tyrants.”
“Oh my God,” Bruce said, “what twisted maniac would hire a mime for a child’s party?”
Thor continued speaking, jabbering about the merits of terrifying children's entertainers, but Bruce needed to focus. As it soon became starkly apparent, Thor could not tell left from right. Therefore, his directions were wholly confusing, wholly contradicting, and largely involved vague gestures and shouting “turn, turn, turn” at the last possible second. A trip that should have taken fifteen minutes took forty, not even including their stop at Dunkin’ for frozen coffees and hashbrowns.
“Welcome,” Thor announced as they rolled through a pair of gilted gaits.
Bruce expected Thor to have money. The disconnect from the lesser things of reality practically displayed “nepotism baby” like a hi my name is sticker. That or “grew up in a secret underground bunker wearing tinfoil hats and being told the government was trying to control the countries’ mind through vaccines and cable television”, but Thor seemed European, and cults felt like a strictly American invention. Still, he wasn’t prepared for Thor’s caliber of wealth.
A sprawling estate in the heart of New York City, front lawn decorated by a sprawling koi pond and massive topiaries in the shape of prowling cats and fighting men. As they entered the foyer, Bruce could imagine Frank Lloyd Wright himself weeping, soaking in the intricacies of the towering ceilings arching some thirty feet above, punctuated by the marble tiling of the floor and delicate gold detailing the ornate features.
Bruce released a breath, opening his mouth in an attempt to express his marvel at the majesty, but before he could speak, a liter goddamn wolf lopped over to Thor and began licking at his hand.
Thor crouched, ruffling the fur at the evil woodland creature’s neck.
“What,” he finally managed. “the fuck.”
“This is my sister’s pet, Fenrir. Do not fear, he is exceptionally friendly.”
“Thor,” he said slowly, tongue heavy in his mouth. “That’s a wolf. You’re petting a wolf. A giant, giant wolf.”
Thor squinted at Fenrir, but never ceased his petting. “Really? But he is so fluffy.”
“Yes. Where the actual hell did your sister find him?”
“Actual Hel.” He remarks distractedly, before going perfected still. “I mean… the dog store. Yes, Fenrir was acquired at the store where dogs are sold. A canine emporium, if you will.”
Ignoring whatever that was, Bruce allows Thor to let Fenrir outside and then lead him through his living room, where Bruce’s attention instantly directs to a very muscular man crying shirtless on his sofa. Even more disconcerting is the angry screaming coming from a nearby room, occasionally punctuated by moaning, carrying over the soft music of Play That Funky Music.
“Play that funky music, white boy,” Thor sings under his breath, before casting a tired glance in the direction of the angriest sex Bruce has ever heard, “Did Hela dump you again, Skurge?”
The man nods miserably, burying his face in his hands and beginning to sob in earnest.
“My sympathies, my sister can be-” Thor cuts off. “Are you wearing my pants?”
Skurge nobs again and, if possible, starts sobbing harder.
“Well then. I’m sure Val will be more than happy to get sufficiently liquored with you once they have finished. Banner, would you like a snack? We have pizza pockets.”
Desperate to escape the situation, Bruce says, “Yes, very much please.”
The entirety of the house Bruce and his great aunt (twice removed on his mother’s side) live in could fit in Thor’s kitchen. His fresh wave of awe--mixed with the familiar burn of hatred toward the fruits of capitalism--is quickly quenched by the sign of a fire burning in the smoky remains of Thor’s microwave. “Your microwave is on fire.”
Thor shrugs, pouring several pizza pockets into the toaster. “The blaze has been burning since well before the start of school, usually these fires burn themselves out by now. Oh well.”
“Shouldn’t you deal with that?”
If Bruce’s brain hasn’t short-circuited when Thor casually stroked a wolf, or when his sister’s ex-boyfriend cried on the couch about said sister’s fun new hate sex, it certainly does when Thor proceeds to beat out the fire with a fire safety manual. And then again when their pizza pockets pop, and Thor dangles the toaster upside down to pour their blackened snack onto a plate of fine china.
“Possibly,” Thor says, unbothered by the spiral of insanity surrounding his very existence, and strolls over to a massive whiteboard dominating one side of the kitchen.
The board is divided into three sections, with the very top of the board labeled “topics of discussion & POLITE grievances for dinner” with Thor, Loki, and Hela’s name underneath, each scrawled in one of the three sections. Under Loki’s name reads “On a scale of 1 to 10, how emotionally disturbed will Thor become if I fake my own death once again?” and then “Thor: more thot or whore? Further deliberations at seven”, and under Hela’s “Should we “overthrow” father and usurp his position? Yes”. Beneath his own name, Thor adds “Who is using my hairdryer? I lovingly command you cease and desist”.
Is Bruce’s mouth open? Because Bruce feels like his mouth is hanging open?
Thor must see his shocked expression for he explains. “I felt there was too much secrecy in my family. I intended for the board to allow my siblings to more easily express their feelings, but now Loki only uses the board to insult me, and Hela to inform us of her newest plan for revenge or general domination.”
“That’s very noble,” Bruce says because it’s better than crumbling into a ball on the floor and shrieking hideously into his elbow, or, as he’s more prone to do, stare blankly into space for several hours contemplating the why god why of it all. “Communication is important.”
Thor beams, and it’s so stupidly radiant that for a moment everything makes sense and Bruce is calm. Then a massive fucking anaconda slithers out in front of him.
Bruce hasn’t the words to describe the noise he makes, but bloodcurdling would probably come the closest.
“Jörmungangr, there you are,” Thor says, wrapping the twenty-foot beast of eldritch horror around his neck like a goddamn scarf. “Loki really needs to stop allowing you to slither about the property unsupervised.”
Bruce closes his eyes, sickly green dancing behind them.
“Banner,” Thor calls, voice distant. “Are you ill? You are turning a bit green. You seem to have that reaction often.”
“I can’t handle this.”
“Oh,” Thor whispers loudly. “Is this about the man tied to a chair on our tennis court? I was hoping you would not notice. But if it helps, I imagine he has done something rather unpleasant to incur Hela’s wrath. Or perhaps she was simply in a foul mood, one can never tell with her.”
Bruce’s eyes snap open. “I didn’t notice, but that’s so great. Peachy. Perfect. Just dandy. Got any other monstrous pets or hostages.”
“Morally speaking, Hela has no hostages as far as I am currently aware, but legally…” Thor trailed off. “As for pets, only Sleipnir, but I would hardly call him monstrous. Perhaps foreboding or ominous, but he certainly is not a monster. He lives in the backyard.”
Bruce is going to regret opening his mouth. “And Sleipnir is?”
“A horse.”
In through your nose, out through your mouth. “Why?”
“Every time my father and Hela have a fight, she steals a possession of his. Antique family heirlooms, gold, a mosaic of my mother, his favorite horse. You understand, items and beings of that nature.”
Bruce does not understand. Bruce does not understand anything. Bruce stopped understanding things twenty minutes ago when he entered Thor’s evil fortress of wacky. “Just give the snake back to your brother. Please.”
Thor leads him up two flights of stairs and down several hallways, making at least four turns in the process. Bruce was never--or at least would never admit under penalty of torture or death to being--wildly into Harry Potter, but he imagines traversing Hogwarts would be a similar experience of disorientation and wonder quickly fading to annoyance.
Trying to be heard above the din of the 2000’s emo music Loki blares, Thor bangs on his door. “Loki.”
“Begone, Thor.” Bruce’s ears nearly bleed as the music sounded even louder.
He bangs harder. “Loki, open up.”
“No, I haven’t the time for your foolishness.”
Thor signed. “I have Jörmungangr.”
The door flew open, Loki snatching his pet from Thor in a blur of arms and pressing a soft kiss to his scaly head. “Oh, my darling, what foul actions has my oaf of a brother taken upon you.”
“Hey,” Thor protested, “I rescued him after your attention wandered.”
“Silence your yammering, liar.”
“Your moniker is literally liesmith! You are actively spinning lies as we sp-” Thor shook his head. “Nevermind, I relent. This is fine. But, I saw your words on the whiteboard of familial repair. No more faking your death, Loki. Never again.”
Bruce wished he could crawl into the ground.
“Truly? But you must see some of the fun of it.”
What
“There is nothing comical about the expenses and intricacies of planning a funeral.”
The
He huffs. “I fail to see how your father is allowed to repeatedly fake a coma to avoid dealing with the consequences of his horrible parenting, but when I fake my own death to avoid the consequences of my actions, suddenly there is a problem.”
Fuck
“Those are both very upsetting acts, but unrelated. Please, we should not fight in front of Banner.”
Loki turns his gaze on Bruce, as if only just noticing him. God, his scrutinizing gaze is intense, staring through Bruce as though he is imagining peeling off Bruce's skin like an apple, but in a detached, clinical way. “Oh yes, you.”
Thor puts a hand on his bicep. “I assure you, at least several of my father’s comas were quite legitimate.”
Somehow, Bruce finds does not find this reassuring.
Loki rolls his eyes. “Well perhaps if your father was not such an insane, conniving bastard and simply explained why he saw fit to kidnapped me from his arch-nemesis as an infant, and then lie about my “surprise adoption” for eons, all as part of a larger political scheme, instead of pretending to fall into an unwakeable sleep, I would not have to resort to such theatrics over minor inconveniences. Or fake my own death to avoid punishment for my war crimes.”
“You were kidnapped as an infant as part of a political scheme?” Bruce asks, uncomprehending, words tumbling from his mouth. “You committed war crimes?”
“My brother exaggerates. His actions were more akin to mild treason and espionage. And who is to decide the divide between “adoption” and “kidnapping” in this strange, emergent time.” Thor laughs, a frantic, stressed noise. “Quickly now, let us study physics.”
Thor drags him bodily away from Loki and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind them.
Thor’s room is enormous, with a California King bed pushed into the room's center, covered by a canopy, diaphanous red curtains dripping like lace. Barring the eye-drawing appeal of the bed and a few pieces of furniture dotting the room, his room feels oddly plain. Almost… impersonal despite the plants and knickknacks jammed onto every available flat surface. After a moment, Bruce realizes: everything feels too new. The scent of cleaner still tinges the air, and despite Thor’s attempts to personalize his space, his trinkets feel newly purchased, and there isn’t a single photograph of Thor or his family to be found, in or out of Thor’s room. As though someone decided to start a new, with nothing from and no reminders of the past.
Bruce waits until Thor settles beside him on the bed. “You’re aware everything about these interactions has been incredibly suspicious, right?”
“Well Banner, if society decides it is suspicious to have a brother who clearly has done many severe crimes, a father of questionable morals, and a sordid past you are poorly telling falsehoods over, then I suppose I am “suspicious”. In the eyes of society.”
“Nothing you just said made me any less deeply concerned, or confused.”
“Oh Banner, your japes are truly too whimsical.”
“I can’t cope with this, let’s just study. Grab your physics textbook.”
Thor blinks at him. “There is a textbook?”
*
“Clint, stop adding to the conspiracy board while you're drunk.”
Pinned to their corkboard were pictures of a conglomerate of seemingly unrelated images of places, times, SHIELD agents, and the other members of their group, tied together with red yarn. However, Natasha knew better, she knew there was a connection somewhere.
“I’m helping. I think Drunk Clint is trying to communicate super important information to Sober Clint that will crack this case wide open.”
“You printed out the stonks meme and frankly concerning the number of photos of Danny Devito and added them to the board, and then stapled your unfinished history homework-which only had one solved question, which you answered with “Godzilla”--to it as well.”
Clint crossed his arms. “I discovered Captain America was still alive and going to low-budget public high school in Midtown.”
Natasha considered giving him a pat on the head but eventually decided against it. “Which I gave you a gold star for.”
“Maybe you're taking this conspiracy board too seriously. Quick, come look me in the eyes, I want to see if you’ve gone feral.”
Nat rolled her non-feral eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Clinton, I’m using succulent shaped tacks to hold the pictures in place. Nothing could be more relaxed.”
“Fine, fine, your sanity is unquestionable.”
“Good, because I’m going over to Stark’s tower to further connect with Pepper. She could very well be our way in. Howard Stark was an integral member of SHIELD for years, who knows what kind of information Tony Stark might have. Or what he could be planning.”
Despite her grave tidings, Clint was smirking, deeply amused with himself. “Sure.”
“Sure?”
“Sure, you're going over to Stark Tower to bond with his personal assistant in the name of covert investigation.” Clint’s cheeky grin stretched. “That’s why you’ve mentioned her half a dozen times since two days ago when you met.”
“Maybe I’m just enjoying being in the company of anyone other than men again.” Natasa said tersely, “even if just to further the mission.”
“Right, like partnering with Maria Hill was just to further the mission.”
Natasha pounced him, looming above as he reclined on the couch. “If you think my judgment is compromised over a single interaction, I assure you-”
Clint cut her off, all hints of amusement leeching instantly from his face. His expression couldn’t be described as pity, which Natasha never would have tolerated, but there was sadness. An unhappy sort of recognition of likeness in another, staring into a person and seeing a mirror of yourself, of your anger, you damage. Natasha didn’t know which emotion to summon in reaction, for she’d never seen Clint quite so earnest before.
Clint sat up straight, looking up at her with openness, with love. “Tasha, hey, that’s not what I meant at all. You’re the most talented, frightening person I’ve ever met, and I lived with clowns and knife jugglers and fire breathers for years.” He smiled shakily. “This could be good for you. God, the cliche of saying this might choke me, but you deserve nice things. You deserve to be happy. Even so, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, we can sit right here in this apartment and mock The Bachelor and eat microwave popcorn, but if you find that your version of happiness includes hot women, then even better.”
People don’t get what they deserve, and I deserve far worse than this. She wanted to deny him, to argue until her throat burned raw and her knuckles bruised, to let him know exactly how much Natasha Romanov deserved. Still, Clint loved her. Clint saw everything about her, broken glass and blood, inside and out, and he still loved her. Natasha made the choice to trust him once long ago, and she’s made the same decision every day since. She can make it one more time.
“I can’t do that, Clint, I can’t allow myself to manipulate her. I’m not even operating under my legal name, how can anything be real? This is a job, one final job. What fairness is there in dragging her--anyone--into this? This job, this life, this... me.”
After a long moment, he says. “Nothing is ever fair, and it doesn't have to be love, and it doesn’t have to be her, but you deserve to feel. When the dust settles and everything is finally over, we’ll get our much-deserved really early retirement, and we’ll see where we’ve landed. No matter what, Tasha, it’s a start.”
“Thank you.” She says, voice barely above a whisper.
Clint shrugs. “What are friends for? Besides, at least one of us needs to marry rich.”
*
“I come bearing apology noodles, straight from Wagamama. Certified strawberry free.”
“Nat, you got through security again? What does Tony even invent AIs for then?” Pepper’s mouth curls in amusement. “Did you bring steak teppanyaki?
Natasha rattled the bag, climbing onto a stool opposite from Pepper’s position at the kitchen island. “And shrimp yakisoba.”
Pepper hums, as if considering. “Tony’s been locked in his lab for the past thirty hours, and I doubt he’ll bother us anytime soon. I supposed I could take a dinner break.”
“Good, because I bought every dessert on the menu, and I’m going to need assistance.”
“Assistance does seem to be my occupation.”
Natasha wants to laugh girlishly at the terrible joke, wants to lie on her bed with her feet kicked up in the air, twirling a phone cord with her finger as she recounts everything to Clint. Pepper reaches across the table, her hand brushing against Nat’s for the briefest eclipse of a moment, and when Pepper laughs, airy and warm, Natasha can’t help but feel something light and fluffy curl within her chest.
This is nice, Natasha thinks before she can stop herself.
Maybe she’s lying, dawning a new identity like an old dress, but it feels so much more honest than anything she’s done in a long time. Natasha made a friend, a connection, something, and anything. Natasha built something, it’s small and burgeoning and she’s already all too much attached, but it’s something, and it’s constructive.
Natasha allows herself the beginnings of a smile. “So, thoughts on lemon tarts?”
This is nice, Natasha thinks, and there’s no reason to stop herself at all.