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It's late and Natasha is in the shower when they gain entry.
They're good enough to avoid the more obvious tells. No creaking floorboards. Certainly no explosions or shattering glass. Whatever they used to circumvent the lock and the alarm on the window is soundless.
Mostly it's just a change in pressure, a stir of the air without the sound of Bruce's steps. Someone has opened a window or a door. It wasn't him. It wasn't her. It wasn't Tony, though he sometimes does that – comes over unannounced and lets himself in - because silent is the last thing she'd ever call him.
It's as subtle as a single puff of breath, but she knows they have uninvited guests.
She hadn't bothered to bring clothing into the bathroom, but she does have the Glock under the sink and a set of knives taped to the back of the mirror. Natasha opts for the knives; they'll be more useful in close quarters.
They left a guard by window where they gained entry; Natasha dispatches him soundlessly, and plucks his communicator from his ear.
There are three more, clearing rooms thoroughly and systematically, working downward – so they have a floor plan, but they haven't been studying their behavior patterns, or if they have, they don't have the sense or the professionalism to use the information. Natasha knows Bruce is asleep on the sofa in the library downstairs; they don't, and they came in on the third floor, from the alley. That took more work than necessary – there are windows on ground level that are no better defended – which means they expected to find their target in a bedroom.
Natasha knows she is not their target because no one who knew enough about her to want her, dead or alive, would be so ignorant as to think they could kill or capture her in her sleep - and they only sent four men.
The man at the end of the second floor hallway is a little better. He ducks her first strike and manages to disengage enough to mutter, “Damn,” at her nudity, the leering twist of his lips visible through the solid black of his full face mask. They circle one another. “Is it my birthday?”
“Only if you believe in reincarnation,” Natasha retorts.
He's down in another fifteen seconds, but between their brief conversation and the noise of the struggle, the others now know she's coming. The comms have gone dead. There's no shouting from downstairs, though – more to the point, no roaring – which means they still haven't woken Bruce.
Natasha mentally weighs the relative merits of screaming versus continuing quietly, and concludes rather quickly that they've put too much into this house to see it destroyed if they can avoid it. If she shouts for Bruce, she'll be waking the Hulk, and while that will guarantee a bad end for their home invaders, the same will probably be true for their home. And possible their neighbors' homes. And Bruce would hate that, and hate himself for it, and really, she can take care of this.
She can hear the remaining two, speaking low and hushed, as soon as she comes off the stairs. They're in the library. With Bruce.
Rage has obvious and well-known affects on Bruce. There is no outwardly visible change in Natasha – but she goes cold, sharp and inhuman. In her mind she is a thing of frozen obsidian, invulnerable. She stops feeling the blow she took to her ribs upstairs. Her senses heighten to the point that she knows, from hearing the shift of clothing and carpet and breath, where they stand before she can see them.
One of them is approaching the sofa. Bruce's respiration is deep and even, entirely oblivious but not so shallow as to indicate his having been drugged. Yet.
She is unsurprised when she comes through the doorway to find one standing watch and the other – the one moving toward Bruce - readying a syringe longer than her hand. It is full of a virulent purple, faintly glowing liquid.
***
Bruce wakes just as the second man crumples, which is more than decent timing; the threat is clearly already neutralized and thus, he isn't even breathing hard when he unceremoniously yanks the valance from the curtain rod over the front window and hands her one end. They have the two intruders in the room securely bound in seconds.
“There are still two upstairs,” Natasha tells him. “One second floor, one third. Unconscious and likely to stay that way a while, though. And Stark owes us a new security system - this bunch of morons got through the first one like it wasn't even there.
“I can't believe they got this close and I didn't even wake up. I used to be able to smell these guys, a mile away. Seriously, I had a sixth sense for it.” Bruce is frowning down at the two now unmasked would-be kidnappers; a man and a woman, both staring straight ahead, jaws clenched shut, clearly trying not to look petrified.
Then he glances up at Natasha. Sees the look on her face. Frowns some more. “And . . why does that make you smile?”
“Because,” she replies. “You feel safe here.”
“Yeah, well, apparently I should.” He waves a hand at the two hog-tied on their library floor with a length of velour curtain, then gives her a lopsided smile. “Um, why are you wet and naked?”
Natasha walks around the captives – and if her hips sway and there's something a bit sultry in her answering grin, well, adrenaline. The kiss is slow and lingering and Natasha would be perfectly fine with it if they didn't stop there, but knows Bruce wouldn't really be into it – audiences aren't his thing, even the enemies-driven-before-us kind. Pity.
When she draws back, her eyes fall on the syringe, laying there forgotten on the carpet, casting strangely glowing shadows.
***
“Romanov.” Fury is pinching the bridge of his nose. “Was this really necessary?”
She's gotten dressed and called it in and now their home is crawling with SHIELD agents - and Tony Stark, who is upstairs at the point of entry dissecting their security system, cursing creatively and continuously.
Fury is eying the syringe protruding from one of their assailants' arms. It is the same syringe they'd been aiming at Bruce. All four of them are laid out on the floor, still bound, sleeping the sleep of chemically induced coma.
“I thought we might want them alive for questioning, sir,” Natasha replies innocently.
“Not what I meant and you know it, Romanov.”
She shrugs. “I used the materials I had to hand. You know I pride myself on my resourcefulness. Sir.”
“I've heard the report you gave to Coulson, Agent. They were already incapacitated. Two of them were already unconscious.”
Natasha just gives him a flat stare. They intruded upon the sanctity of my home. They tried to hurt someone I love. Be thankful you can find all the pieces, says that stare.
Fury sighs. “You are damn lucky I like you, I just want you to know that.”
“Yes, sir.”