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tacsuit:

The door sweeps open with a hiss of air (negative pressure, a normal precaution) and natasha slips in (silent on flat shoes) with only a touch of envy for those safe enough to go without noticing someone in their blind spot. 

                                                     only a touch. It’s nothing or total war, for him.

(the door sweeps closed)

there’s a scent the fume hood can’t scrub out, but she trusts its safe enough. Thing is, she likes his bad science. His test batches of one, the only data recovered: it didn’t work. It doesn’t just come with self-carelessness, she decides, it’s part of how he sees the world.

(Tony isn’t here. He’d be on bruce for making messes instead of running simulations.)

Whatever he walks away from didn’t work. maybe it’s something in the atmosphere. The temperature. A contaminant. Maybe it’s because she walked in the door. She is, from one point of view, just a factor he hasn’t entered into his calculations yet. She can see his face mirrored in the projection screen, even, but his eyes don’t focus on her. 

she smiles to herself. It’s been a while since anyone’s been wary about startling the beast. She sits on a tall stool, wrapping her fingers around the one mug that’s still warm, and waits for him to turn away from his variables and back to his tools. She’ll be dead center, then.  

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         Inhale, EXHALE...count to ten– or eleven, for ‘good measure’ ( SURE ). Quadruple-check the equations. Review the work until his eyes become LASERS, scanning the monitor for the slightest trace of ERROR. His stance stiff, morphed into something mechanical, robotic. He goes through the MOTIONS, all the formalities and, as usual, none of them prove to be BENEFICIAL.

         INDIGNATION pulls at him, tempting in its artful ways, and like a FEVERISH child, he gives in. Several obscenities and a fractured clipboard later, he feels REVITALIZED… ( it’s not a regular behavior PATTERN for him– but then again, neither are FOUR consecutive unavailing trials ).

                                                           TIME TO GO FOR A NEW APPROACH. 

         Bruce TURNS on his heel, swiftly, in critical THINKING mode, but those trains come to a near-immediate halt. To his horror ( but not his SURPRISE ) he’s got company. For how long, now? Doesn’t MATTER. Long enough to witness the TANTRUM. And long enough for Romanoff to get her HANDS on the last cup of Earl Grey. 

         It’s a WONDER how she does that– FLOATS in and out of rooms like some OTHERWORLDLY being. A divine one, at that. && The SURROUNDINGS always seem to cater to her, KEEPING her secret, making her PRESENCE known only when she’s good and ready. Her FOOTSTEPS, her breathing, all of it untraceable. Or perhaps it’s merely him, the SCIENTIST. Too caught up in his trances– his outbursts– to DETECT her. To notice.

         He notices her NOW, though. Embarrassment flooding his VEINS, clumsiness seeping under his SKIN while he makes haste to recover. ❝ What, the CIRCUS closed today? ❞ It’s in reference to HIMSELF, of course. And while his TONE is lighthearted, amiable– the jest holds TRUE. Anyone’s gotta have one hell of an EMPTY evening lined up with the intention to STICK around for this freak show. His fingers lock TOGETHER, thumbs pressing into one another, EYES momentarily averting. 

         ❝ Did you want my LUNCH, too? ❞ He’s playing it safe today– QUESTIONS. Deflecting. Wisecracks and QUIPS. Something they’ve both learned to appreciate WITHIN these ( really decked out, COURTESY of Tony ) walls. Humor. A COPING mechanism for MOMENTS like this one. Moments where THE real subject matter is better LEFT untouched. He raises a quizzical eyebrow at her, meeting her LINE of vision once more, gesturing toward the drink in her hands. The DRINK– ❝ Huh, that’s – ❞ It! RIGHT there! And so blatantly OBVIOUS an answer, too ( DOWNRIGHT humiliating, if he might ADD ). It really shouldn’t have TAKEN him even a fraction of this long to see it. Now he’s gone AGAIN. Palms spread outward as he BEGINS to count on his fingers, elbows FROZEN in mid-air, perfect 90 degree angles. As if he is CAPTURING the idea in its prime moment– trapping it there, the reward for all his HOURS of mental strain. 

         He’s SILENT as he begins to pace, WRISTS moving at unimaginable speeds; he’s a CONDUCTOR now…waving formulas to LIFE across the screen as the thought PROCESS unfurls itself. Moving one number, a SYMBOL and then another number, AND another…it’s all coming together. 

                                                     ❝ NATASHA, you just may be my lucky charm. ❞