Better Acquaintances || Tony Stark & Natasha Romanoff
Location: 10880 Malibu Point, 90265
Date: 6th November 2012
He wasn’t exactly coping so well after - well, after what had happened in New York some six months ago.Well. That was a lie. No. He was fine. So what if he’d dragged Pepper across I-40 with her bags crammed in the trunk, he just needed to get out of the city for a while; it had been a long drive but those two days spent on the road, his feet firmly on the ground, had been exactly what he’d needed.
They’d all disbanded after everything was said and done and while, sure, he still occasionally texted Bruce, he hadn’t seen sight nor sound of the others.
Which, alright, cool. We’ll save the world together guys, but we can’t catch up and have a coffee?
He should’ve made the ungrateful ingrates pay for their own shawarma.
It’d be nice, in a totally terrifying way, to be told that what had happened hadn’t been a dream. It’d be nice to sit and maybe talk to someone who’d experienced the same madness. He had Pepper, and Rhodey had visited once or twice, but he still felt breathtakingly alone and how pathetic was that for a grown man?
But whatever. He was good. He couldn’t sleep, but that was fine, it just left more hours in the day to build. He’d be damned if he’d ever be caught off guard like that again. What kind of futurist was he anyway?
“Nono, J. Bulkier. What part of ‘we’re building a heavy lifting suit’ didn’t you get? He needs to be big. Clunky. Think the last one, Mark 37, just, uh,” Tony paused, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand, “bigger.”
Whatever sassy, snarky reply JARVIS replied with, Tony ignored in favour of finding an old mug of coffee and draining it in one swallow.
Pepper was upstairs, asleep and he’d snuck out of bed once her breathing evened out and the arm she’d slung across his waist had grown heavy; JARVIS, in reprimand, flashed up the time in angry red letters as he crept downstairs and down to his ‘shop.
“Sir?” Blinking out of his thoughts, the very tone of the words had him reckoning that wasn’t the first time JARVIS had tried to get his attention. He hummed in reply, letting him know that he was listening. “Agent Romanoff is requesting permission to enter the premises.”
“What?” Sitting up a little more, with one simple hand movement, he was pulling up the security camera outside. Sure enough, there was a little red headed assassin chilling out on some crotch rocket; he would swear she met his eyes through the projection and he shuddered as a chill went down his spine. She was beautiful but Jesus Christ, he swore his balls always sought refuge by trying to crawl their way inside of him whenever she made an appearance.
Oh, he totally had a crush.
Maybe it was a redhead kink.
“Sir? Agent Romanoff appears to be injured.”
“The fuck is she doing here then? This isn’t a hospital.” Squinting at the image before him, briefly biting his bottom lip, he made a noise at the back of his throat. “You sure it’s her, Jarv?”
“All scans have come back as a positive match.”
Sighing, he pushed himself to his feet. “Buzz her in then.” He was already making his way up the steps, two at a time, before the gates had even opened fully. “Full security, JARVIS. Just in case. You feelin’ me here?” is the last instruction he gives before he’s throwing the door open, head jerking back in surprise when she’s fucking stood there. He hadn’t thought she’d be off the bike yet. God damn.
She looked like shit. (Ha, like he was one to talk right now.) Utterly thrown, and more than a little confused, he could blame all that and the hour - possibly even his blood alcohol content - on his blurted greeting.
“This is the worst booty call ever, you could’ve at least made an effort.”
What a shit night. What an all around, start to finish big heap of shit night.
Natasha has to put renewed effort into pushing the burning pain in her side away, to focus her eyes on the road as she drives the last stretch of it, relief flowing through her when she sees the familiar gates coming closer. It’s pretty damn late at night, and so the house seems dark, unsurprisingly, except for the lights on the outside. Natasha has no idea if anyone is even there, but last she heard Stark - Tony? Are they on first names after everything that happened in New York? - was here in Malibu, so she’s taking that chance. Pepper being there would already also be really helpful - no matter what the other woman’s views on her were or are after everything, Natasha is pretty sure she’s not going to leave her out here.
Natasha brings the motorcycle to a halt next to the console by the gate and takes her helmet off, wincing. Not yet bothering to actually get off the bike.
”Good evening, Agent Romanoff,” a familiar voice speaks up without her having to say anything at all, and a small smile briefly flickers over her lips.
”Hi, Jarvis. Is there any way you could let me in, do you think? I don’t want you to wake anyone up, but if you have to -”
”Mr. Stark is up and working, I will let him know that you’re here,” the AI replies smoothly, and Natasha breathes a sigh of relief. She reaches absently for her side but thinks better of it, and so the hand only hovers for a moment before she lets it sink again.
It’s burning like hell and she really, really needs some bandages. The gate still doesn’t move, and she looks up at glares at the speaker and camera for a moment. Yes, alright, she didn’t exactly announce her visit, but come on, Stark, please -
The second the gates start to open, Natasha pins her helmet between her knees and drives the motorbike right up to the door, off it and having crossed the remaining distance before the door is even opened.
This is the worst booty call ever, you could have at least made an effort.
”Sorry for this,” Natasha greets him back, not finding the energy within herself to respond with a quib of her own. “Was in the neighborhood, I really need some high percentage alcohol and bandages. Ice, too. You have at least two out of those, right?”
And she wouldn’t have needed him to look at her like this, Natasha knows knows she looks like shit. There’s not much left of her hairstyle, her makeup is probably smudged, her cheekbone is throbbing around a small cut, and she’s very likely pale as hell.
Huge shitpile of a night.
He’s stood there, in sweatpants and a tank top, simply just looking at the state of her - it is, perhaps, the most unravelled he’s ever seen her and they kinda fought a bunch of aliens together (don’t think about that, Tony) - so excuse you, he’s allowed to be a little thrown here.
It takes a minute, but he jerks himself into action, throwing the door open a little wider and moving off to one side so she could come in. “Uh, try not to bleed on the carpet. Pepper will kill me.”
“Sorry for this. Was in the neighborhood, I really need some high percentage alcohol and bandages. Ice, too. You have at least two out of those, right?”
Well, the alcohol and the ice was always a given. “Hey J, bandages?”
“I believe there are several rolls in the First Aid Box, underneath the kitchen sink, Sir.”
Huh. He didn’t even know he had one of those in the cupboard under the sink. Go figure.
Watching her limp in, he felt like an asshole just stood there; nudging the door shut with his hip, JARVIS taking over and making sure it didn’t slam, he wrapped an arm around her waist, careful of the injury there and tutted. “I’ll be waiting all day for you to make your way into the living room; settee, it’s leather and much easier to clean than trying to get blood out of the grout in the kitchen tiles.”
Easing her down onto the settee, he hadn’t quite hit the ‘freak out stage’ of someone rocking up to his house bleeding, but he was starting to meander his way out of the ‘wtf stage’. “The alcohol is to drink, right? You’re not thinking about wasting it to clear whatever injury you’ve managed to do to yourself, because this is 2012, we have antiseptic for that now. You know what? Never mind. Just. Stay there. Don’t pass out and die on me, I’ll be right back.”
It was easy enough to find the first aid kit and even easier to find a good bottle of scotch (he was a bit of a princess, he picked up two glasses because he was not having backwash in his fifty year old whiskey, thank you very much, potentially dying or not) and the ice he carried in in the tumblers; economical and easy.
Easy. It was the word of the night apparently.
“Still alive? Good.” Dropping everything on the couch besides her, minus the whiskey which he proceeded to open, he stayed standing, looking down at her with, eyebrows furrowed. “Not that it’s not a delight to see you, but why have you come here opposed to, say, a hospital? I make a terrible nursemaid, for the record. Terrible.”
For a moment he just blinks at her, and that’s okay, she’s not surprised, it’d be completely fine, if not for the pain in her side. And - well, shit.
Try not to bleed on the carpet.
There is blood trickling out from under her motorcycle jacket, and this time she says “Shit” out loud, even if it’s quietly. She really does need those bandages. But at least Tony seems to have overcome his momentary speechlessness and lets her in - does even more than that.
For just a moment Natasha tenses as the arm comes around her waist, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, leaving only tension because he’s dangerously close to the lower end of the long cut the knife left along her side. And okay, settee then, whatever, she just wants to sit down already.
“Thanks,” Natasha murmurs when he eases her down. She represses a wince and breathes deeply, immediately but carefully starting to tug the zipper of the jacket down.
The alcohol is to drink, right? You’re not thinking about wasting it to clear whatever injury you’ve managed to do to yourself, because this is 2012, we have antiseptic for that now.
A small, brief smile tugs on the corners of her mouth. He doesn’t really give her much time to answer before hurrying off, and she’s grateful to him, for saying enough that she doesn’t have to, for getting her what she asked of him. Natasha peels herself out of the jacket and, okay, fuck, that hurts - the top is next, and now that there’s no fabric holding her together anymore, more blood wells up from the cut. It’s long but shallow, thank god, and she waits with the ruined top bunched up and pressed against the wound.
When he comes back, Natasha immediately reaches for the first aid box, and finds everything in there that she needs.
“Well, you’re lucky that there is antiseptic in here,” she smirks wryly and fishes it out, “or I would have used your alcohol.” But as it is, she can just open the small bottle, take her bloodied top away, and pour it over the wound.
She really hates this part.
Funny that, he’s never actually heard her swear before, not once during the battle - and sure, okay, he took a nap there towards the end (not thinking about that, moving swiftly on) but still - and maybe that’s what kickstarts him into moving his ass so she can come in, rather than bleed to death on his doorstep.
What would be easier to explain? Dead body on his front doorstep or dead body in his living room? Doorstep, surely. Right?
Not that it mattered right now, because he was helping her to hobble into said living room. He felt the need to warn her anyway. “Don’t die in my living room; Legal aren’t my friends right now and they’d make sure I got sent down for murder. I’m too pretty to go to jail and I’d rather not become anyone’s bitch, you feeling me here?”
She’s not saying much, is the thought that strikes him when he’s fetching the first aid kit. Maybe it was only him who babbled even more when in pain? He wasn’t exactly the norm but it was still rather disconcerting; what kind of person didn’t even make a fucking noise when they were in pain? This woman was absolutely terrifying.
His step only faltered a little bit when he came back in to see her sat there in her bra - it made sense, he knew that much, and it made even more sense when he could finally see the rather long gash across her stomach - simply because he wasn’t expecting it. “I want it going down on record, JARVIS, that she undressed herself. In case Pepper finds out and asks.”
It shouldn’t be possible for an AI to sound exasperated but JARVIS, well, he managed it without even trying. “Duly noted, Sir.”
“Well, you’re lucky that there is antiseptic in here, or I would have used your alcohol.”
Snorting in amusement, he simply shakes his head, pouring them both a drink, wincing when he catches sight of her bundled up top; it’s fucking saturated. He hands the glass over. “You think I would’ve let you? Not happening.” Waiting for her to grab the glass, he swallows a healthy mouthful only when it’s been handed over. “Here. Knock that back first. That- yeah, ow, that’s gunna hurt like a son of a bitch. Which begs the question, again - why are you here? And not somewhere, uh, sanitary?”
Don’t die in my living room; Legal aren’t my friends right now and they’d make sure I got sent down for murder. I’m too pretty to go to jail and I’d rather not become anyone’s bitch, you feeling me here?
A small smile flickers over Natasha’s lips. She knows it’s probably a little disconcerting to him that she doesn’t really talk, but she needs her energy to focus, to keep the pain from registering too prominently in her mind. Tony Stark in prison though - now that’s an unreal thought.
Not that she’s anywhere close to dying. But Natasha decides to mention that later too.
I want it going down on record, JARVIS, that she undressed herself. In case Pepper finds out and asks.
She rolls her eyes just a little, and this time Natasha murmurs in reply, “I’ll write you a little slip excusing you of any crime.” But her voice is a little unstable, and she has to take a deep breath after, the antisept burning terribly on her flesh. Little sparks dance in front of her eyes for a moment, and she blinks slowly to force them back. Breathe, in, out, focus.
When she feels more stable again, Natasha starts cleaning the wound up, simply has to go through the motions. The routine helps, and she can start wrapping the bandages around her middle soon. Until then Tony only gets a grateful nod for the glass he pours for her, and she ignores it for a few more moment until she catches a short break and takes it from his hand.
Knock that back first. That- yeah, ow, that’s gunna hurt like a son of a bitch. Which begs the question, again - why are you here? And not somewhere, uh, sanitary?
Her first impulse was to just put the glass down and finish first, but maybe he’s got a point. So Natasha drinks first, the alcohol burning down and distracting her for a moment.
“Too much trouble,” she finally answers, going back to her bandages. “Everything here that I need.”
Okay, so, surely he got a point for getting a smile out of her, no matter how brief or small it had been, it was a smile off the Black Widow. A Black Widow who was currently bleeding everywhere (that might be a slight exaggeration, but only slight) completely out of nowhere and, Christ, was this his life now?
He… had no idea how he felt about that, actually.
“I’ll write you a little slip excusing you of any crime.”
“Yeah?” he asks, both brows lifting up to his hairline. “Is that like, a one time thing, or can I cash it in whenever I want? Because that would be useful, lemme tell you.” He can’t help but to watch her and he knows his expression is pulled into one of empathy because, yeah, ow, that does not look good. “Any chance you could write that out now? Y’know, before you die on my sofa. That would be good.”
He was only partly joking, up until the point she all but went white when she just poured antiseptic directly onto the wound.
Well, here was proof she wasn’t actually made of stone, but of flesh and blood and that… was oddly reassuring.
“No death here,” he reiterated, even as he passed her the scotch, “or throwing up for that matter. That sofa is expensive and took fucking forever to get here from Italy.”
He felt ridiculous, stood here barefoot at fuck o’clock in the morning, unkempt and neither use nor ornament, while she just sat there scrubbing god knows what out of her stomach; he could already see the blood congealing underneath her fingertips.
“Too much trouble. Everything here that I need.”
Knocking back his drink with a hum, he set aside the empty glass and bent down to unwrap a roll of bandages for when she was ready for them. “Ah, so I’m like a pit stop on the way to death. Yeah, okay. I get it.” He didn’t get it. “I ogled your ass too many times when you were Ms Rushman, and this is my punishment? Should’ve stayed away from the pencil skirts if you didn’t want me looking.”
It was totally safe to talk about her ass when she was bleeding out on his couch, right? Perhaps not the best bedside manner, but at least all his panicking was internal, rather than external.
“What happened, anyway? Does Iron Man need to go on out there and defend your honor? He could totally kick their ass for you.”
Is that like, a one time thing, or can I cash it in whenever I want? Because that would be useful, lemme tell you. Any chance you could write that out now? Y’know, before you die on my sofa. That would be good.
Her voice does sound a little tight, but Natasha can’t be bothered too much about that right now. She swallows down the lingering taste of alcohol on her tongue and focuses on the bandages again, accepting them with a nod of thanks.
“You’re going to have to come back to me every time for a new one. I like keeping people dependent on my mercy,” she adds with a smirk before she starts wrapping them around herself, having done this too many times under too many different circumstances already to not have steady hands for it.
No death here, or throwing up for that matter. That sofa is expensive and took fucking forever to get here from Italy.
“I never throw up. Do you happen to own a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt I could borrow?”
Only one more reason why here is preferable to hospitals - she absolutely hates hospital clothes.
Once she has neatly fastened the end of the bandage, she can finally take a breath and relax a little. Natasha closes the bottle of antisept again and puts it down on the coffee table, then reaches for the small packet of wet wipes to set about cleaning up her hands and side, and wherever smudges of blood were on her skin. The pain is, thankfully, starting to lose the sharpness around its edges. So when she’s sure that she hasn’t missed any of the blood, Natasha leaves the wipes on the coffee table too - for now at least - and leans back slowly against the backrest of the sofa, allowing herself to relax a little further.
I ogled your ass too many times when you were Ms Rushman, and this is my punishment? Should’ve stayed away from the pencil skirts if you didn’t want me looking.
The corners of her mouth twitch because she doesn’t let herself laugh even though she wants to.
“Oh, I did want you to look. I had only two minutes to make you want to hire me, and the rest was staying as close as possible. And the day I need a man to defend my honor, I’m going to give up on life. So thanks, but no, thanks.”
“Well that’s a bit of a let down. I’ll still take it written down if it’s all the same to you. Not quite ready to cash it in yet.”
“You’re going to have to come back to me every time for a new one. I like keeping people dependent on my mercy.”
He’s talking for the sake of talking, nervous babble bubbling up because yeah, you know what, he might be silently freaking out on the inside a little here. “Is that like a kink of yours? Have you just told me a kink? Wow, so, nearly dying really opens you up, huh? I feel like we’re closer than ever.” He feels a bit weird, just stood here, dirty and sweaty, with a glass of whiskey in his hands, just watching her wrap herself up; a bit like some creepy fucking voyeur, who’s wiggling his bare toes against the rug for a lack of anything else to do.
“I never throw up. Do you happen to own a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt I could borrow?”
Oh thank fuck, something he can do. “Uh huh. Just make sure you don’t. J? Keep an eye on Ms Romanoff here, make sure she doesn’t pass out, throw up and choke to death while I’m off getting some clothes, yeah? Standard protocol here, buddy.” Giving her one last unsure look, he puts his glass off to one side and pads out of the living room and upstairs to his closet.
He has to swallow down the hysterical laughter at the fact he’s creeping around the bedroom whilst his girlfriend sleeps, finding clothes for a stabbed and half-undressed Russian spy downstairs. This is his life now. Jesus.
He picks out the softest and loosest clothes he owns, a faded tee and a pair of jogging bottoms that are cotton soft and just starting to bobble; he even throws in a pair of silk boxers and thick socks, because why the fuck not?
By the time he gets back downstairs, it looks like she’s done with tending to herself, and he tosses the clothes onto the seat next to her. “Didn’t die I see. Appreciate it.”
“Oh, I did want you to look. I had only two minutes to make you want to hire me, and the rest was staying as close as possible. And the day I need a man to defend my honor, I’m going to give up on life. So thanks, but no, thanks.”
Smirking at her, he speaks over his shoulder as he heads towards the kitchen. “Hey now, less of that. Don’t judge all men based on me. I’ve been repeatedly informed there’s some good ones out there, ones that you shouldn’t feel ashamed about if they defend your honor.” Coming back out, paper grocery bag in hand - pro!green and all that bullshit, right? - he uses a slip of discarded bandage to knock anything bloody and used into the bag.
“Right, same drill as last time. No death. I’m gunna go dispose of this in the lab.” He wiggled the bag in the air. “Get changed, try not to get blood on my top, it’s one of my favorites, okay?”
Well that’s a bit of a let down. I’ll still take it written down if it’s all the same to you. Not quite ready to cash it in yet.
Natasha doesn’t bother to reply to that. She just leans back carefully, relaxing slowly against the cushioned backrest, her arm slung around her middle, and watches Tony, amusement tugging lightly on the corners of her mouth.
She knows that if he’s in the mood, he would totally go with this and let her do it. So if he really wants to, he can get her a piece of paper and a pen, and she’d go along with it. Natasha likes that about Tony most of the time. He’s a little ridiculous sometimes, but he’s unapologetic about it, and it’s refreshing sometimes.
They both know that it’s his nerves talking right now, so she lets him, just tips her head to the side to watch.
Is that a kink of yours? Have you just told me a kink? Wow, so, nearly dying opens you up, huh? I feel like we’re closer than ever.
That sends a fully formed grin to Natasha’s lips. “Sorry, Stark, you haven’t reached the level of friendship to unlock my secret kinks yet.”
He practically jumps at the chance to do something other than stand there and babble, so Natasha throws a request for a bottle of water in for good measure. She has lost enough blood that she needs it, and though the alcohol is nice to take the edge off, she needs the water more right now.
When he returns, she eyes his choice of clothes curiously, and her eyebrows rise in amusement at the silk boxers.
Didn’t die I see. Appreciate it.
“Told you I wouldn’t. Silk boxers, huh?”
Natasha reaches for the small pile with one hand and shakes it all open while he’s heading to the kitchen.
Don’t judge all men based on me. I’ve been repeatedly informed there’s some good ones out there, ones that you shouldn’t feel ashamed about if they defended your honor.
She makes a soft, half amused, acknowledging sound, watching gratefully as he cleans up her mess.
“Believe me, I’ve had a lot of time meeting all kinds of men. So I know,” Natasha returns, giving a small, one-shouldered shrug. “And I never said I’d feel ashamed. If anyone is that dead set on it, they can knock themselves out. I just said I’m never going to need it.”
Now that she’s sitting here and relaxing, weariness starts creeping in. Natasha suppresses a yawn, and yeah, she’s aching to get out of her clothes and into this soft, comfortable looking stuff he brought her. It smells nice and clean, the laundry detergent probably the best you can buy.
Get changed, try not to get blood on my top, it’s one of my favorites, okay?
“Won’t,” Natasha promises with a small, wry smile. He’s already turning away when she adds, earnestly, “Thanks, Tony.”
He’s a talker, everyone knows that, it’s just what he does - babbling is another, yet less affectionate term, for what he does. But in lieu of actually being able to do something? It’s all he’s got when there’s a Russian spy bleeding on his couch. Anyway, what kind of fucking reaction was he meant to have? What was he meant to do right now, except to silently freak out?
“Sorry, Stark, you haven’t reached the level of friendship to unlock my secret kinks yet.”
“Yet,” he parroted back to her as he was leaving the room, orders in hand. “Key word there, Romanoff. Yet. You’ll succumb to my charms - it’s inevitable. And then we’ll play ‘I Have Never Ever’ and paint each other’s nails. It’ll be a blast.”
Tossing her a wink over his shoulder, posturing because hey, a life time habit is hard to break, he left her there to (hopefully) not die and to tip-toe around his bedroom to grab her some clothes. And once he had them, he was back downstairs and tossing them over to her.
“Told you I wouldn’t. Silk boxers, huh?”
“You think I’d want anything else cradling my junk? Damn right silk boxers. Put them on and try to tell me you don’t feel as sexy as shit in them; I’ll call bullshit so fast.”
Then it was another detour to the kitchen, clean up and a bottle of water in his hands, and he was nudging bloodied bandages and whatever the fuck else into the paper bag, ready to dispose of it down in the lab. “Here’s your water, Princess Anastasia. Anything else? No? Awesome. I’ll be right back, if that’s okay with your holiness?”
The ‘won’t’ has his lips twitching in an aborted smile and the thanks gives him pause, eyebrows crinkling. “Y’welcome? It’s no problem. Just, a head’s up next time, yeah? Not that I’m saying I want there to be a next time–how about just don’t get stabbed or otherwise injured full stop? Think you can do that?” Cocking a sardonic brow at her, he didn’t wait for a reply before leaving the room.
It only took a minute to dispose of the bag in the bio-waste bin, but that was hardly enough time for her to change. So instead, he pours himself a drink and takes his time drinking it; yeah, she was one injured, but he needed something for his nerves too. Scrubbing a hand over his face, up through his hair, and down to grip the back of his neck, he blew out a long breath.
“Yes, sir. Ms. Romanoff has indeed changed her clothing.”
“Sweet.” Knocking back whatever was left in glass, he discarded the glass to one side and pushed himself to his feet, taking the stairs two at a time until he was back up in the lounge.
“Was I right about the boxers or was I right?” was his opening, eyeing up her discarded clothing on the floor - personally, he’d burn the fuckers, but god knows what she’d do with them. Frame them, perhaps? Then again, if she framed everything she was nearly killed in, surely she’d run out of wall space sooner or later?
“Also, you’re sprawling, budge up.” Ignoring the fact that there was plenty of room on the couch, he lifted her feet up - carefully, mind you, he didn’t want to find himself between those thighs of hers… okay, that’s a lie, like, before he got together with Pep, he’d’ve been totally down for that - and sat, plopping her feet into his lap. “You good?”
Yet. Key word there, Romanoff. Yet. You’ll succumb to my charms - it’s inevitable. And then we’ll play ‘I Have Never Ever’ and paint each other’s nails. It’ll be a blast.
Once Tony is out of sight, Natasha actually lets herself laugh quietly at his announcement. It’s just soft, and mindful of her side, not wanting to bring on a new wave of pain by pulling at it through laughter. Because the picture he just painted with words is ridiculous and amusing enough.
Natasha hopes that Pepper won’t be woken up by this, that Tony is quiet enough or doesn’t have to go back into the bedroom to get those clothes. The last thing she wants is to disturb the other woman in her rest - God knows she probably needs it.
At least Tony’s still alone when he comes back, and Natasha raises her eyebrows at him at his comment, the corners of her mouth twitching.
Put them on and try to tell me you don’t feel as sexy as shit in them.
“I’m not going to argue with you,” Natasha smirks wryly, easily ignoring the princess comments he throws her way after that. Damn, another Anastasia reference… she’s really going to have to watch that movie one day.
There’s something that flashes over his face for a moment when she thanks him that she can’t help but notice, even if she’s not entirely sure what exactly it is.
How about just don’t get stabbed or otherwise injured full stop? Think you can do that?
“You’re probably going to have to wait for that for a while,” Natasha mumurs to herself since he’s already gone. She starts undressing immediately, the movements careful and slow, her wound smarting sharply while she does. But once she’s in the fresh, soft clothes, she instantly feels better, kicks the other clothes into a pile next to the sofa, and lies down on it with a sigh of relief.
She has her eyes closed but hears his steps coming even before he speaks up, making her smile a little.
Was I right about the boxers or was I right?
“They’re nice enough,” Natasha admits, a small teasing edge to it. The thing that actually takes her enough by surprise that she opens her eyes again and instinctively tenses a little, is him raising her feet onto his thigh. Her gaze locks on him, but it’s easy to see that it’s entirely unassuming.
“Yeah,” Natasha replies, her gaze resting evenly on him. “Was the right idea to come here. Your clothes are infinitely more comfortable than the stuff they give you in hospitals.”
Back from clearing up her mess and without the slightest idea of what to do with her clothes - they could stay there on the floor for a bit, stink the place up for all he cared - his lips twitched in bemusement at her. “Nice enough?” he scoffs, taking his own life into his hands when he lifts up her feet to sit down.
It’s silly, really it is, but after New York, sitting in that half demolished restaurant, it had been a real balm to his nerves and sure, maybe she wasn’t wired the same, maybe she didn’t need some grounding point - they had both had different experiences after all, and this was common place to her if the way she’d put herself back together was any indication - but he was sure if she didn’t want him there, she’d kick him away.
“We both know you’re under selling how amazing they feel. But that’s fine. You do you. I know your true thoughts on the matter.” He even tossed a cheeky little wink in there too, once he felt her eyes on him, just as he sat, her feet on his thighs. “I want them back, by the way. Might sell them on eBay. You’ve got quite the following now. Or, no, wait- better idea. Auction them off. Charity. Forgot about the philanthropist part of me for a minute there.”
“Yeah. Was the right idea to come here. Your clothes are infinitely more comfortable than the stuff they give you in hospitals.”
“I should hope so too; they’re infinitely more expensive.” It seemed natural, hands running on muscle memory, to pick up one of her feet as he spoke and to start slowly kneading at the ball of her foot; the amount of times Pepper had stuck her feet under his nose without a word had clearly trained him - feet in lap = foot rub.
“Hey, J, throw on a movie. Something funny. Volume at five percent.” Mark 38 was still synthesizing - JARVIS would’ve alerted him if it was ready yet - he could afford to spend an hour out of his lab. He could make the hour up. It was fine. The world wasn’t going to end in an hour. It was fine.
Pressing his thumbs into her sole, he rolled his eyes as the opening for Johnny English started to play. “Nice sense of humor there, Jarv. Real subtle. Kids these day, eh?” he added, turning to her, suddenly struck with a thought. “Speaking of kids, where’s the second half to you? Terror Twin Two? Thought you two spies came part and parcel of each other.”
It’s funny, but the expression that flickers over his face just after he sat down, the one that betrays that he only just actually realized what he’s done, is reassuring. And it’s the main reason why Natasha smiles to herself and relaxes again.
I want them back, by the way. Might sell them on eBay. You’ve got quite the following now.
She gives a soft, small huff, mostly to herself, and grimaces a little.
Natasha - Well, she’s not unaware that there are a lot of magazines are writing about them and that, since New York happened, there’s a lot of speculation about who most of them are. Thank God no one figured hers and Clint’s identity out yet.
She supposes ‘the female Avenger’ is distinctive enough to give her a following anyway.
And hey, that’s probably good. Reminds a lot of little girls out there that women can be heroes too.
She doesn’t have to consider herself one for that to count, right?
That’s instantly secondary, however, when he actually starts kneading the ball of her foot. Because that’s one of her weaknesses, damn it. Whenever her feet would hurt from all the dancing in her youth, Natasha would sit on her bed late in the evenings, fold her legs under her and massage her feet, trying to relax the muscles and soothe the aches. It was like a command to her body to finally relax a little, and it never really stopped working.
So Natasha closes her eyes and raises one arm to rest it over her head, covering her eyes with the inside of her elbow, a soft hitch in her breath.
The movie that starts is only background noise, but something he says makes her stir again.
Speaking of kids, where’s the second half to you? Terror Twin Two? Thought you two spies came part and parcel of each other.
“Oh - Thanks for the reminder,” Natasha murmurs and reaches for her phone that she stuffed into one of the pockets of the sweatpants before, quickly typing up a text.
New graduate was after my title. All fine, just a cut. Regrouping at Stark’s in Malibu.
“He’s on a mission in South America,” she finally replied once the text was sent, slipping the phone back into her pocket.
“Oh c’mon now, don’t play coy. You know you have. Don’t tell me you’ve not seen the t-shirts with you on them? I got Pep a bunch of them.” Making a sound at the back of his throat, only relaxing because he could feel her relaxing - Jesus, Tony, how do you get yourself into these situations? - he glanced over to the stairs as though considering going to get her one.
“Just silhouettes, mind you; flash of red hair. They’ve given you a great pair on them and quite the ass too. The pose… tch, I don’t see how the human body could contort that way, but who am I to judge?”
He’s kneading her foot before he knows what he’s doing, thumbs pressing into the arch, fanning out to opposite sides as he works, going back over the same area again and again, until he’s happy; when he’d do this for Pepper, it was as much about her as it was about him. He was unable to sit still - more so now, after New York - and giving his hands something to do was just therapeutic.
It was a win-win for both parties really.
The fact that Natasha hadn’t kicked him in the teeth yet, well, that was unexpected. Pepper might like Tony mauling with her feet, but no one said a Super Secret Triple Russian Spy Assassin would.
Talk about getting lucky.
Christ, she was practically melting into the couch.
Yeah, he was proud of his magic fingers.
“Oh - Thanks for the reminder.”
“You’re welcome,” he muttered back, watching as she plucked her phone out to fire off a text, crinkling his nose as he caught sight of it. He sniffed. “Why am I even a Consultant for SHIELD? Shitty propeller based helicarrier that can be taken down by a fucking arrow; screens that people have to turn to see and now this - Samsung. Really? Really. I need to have words with Nick. Serious words. This is ridiculous.”
He was also serious. He’d already drawn up plans for a new helicarrier, in between each frabrication of a new suit, filling up the hours that were meant for sleep with coffee and bright blue holograms; repulsors were the new thing, somebody just needed to tell Nick that.
“He’s on a mission in South America.”
“Yeah? Tell Bird Brain I said hi. And to bring me back some cigars. Best place to get them from, South America.”
Yes, Natasha is aware of the fact that she has fans, even nameless as she still is to the public. A redhead in a black skintight suit fighting aliens in New York was enough to see to that. And thankfully it isn’t only the kind of fans that think it’s ‘hot’.
She has heard herself being referred to as an inspiration for women. And while she’s not sure how she feels about that, exactly, at least it’s - good. It’s good. Something Natasha would like to work for, to maybe feel like she really has earned some day.
But she didn’t know there were t-shirts.
“Pepper owns a bunch of t-shirts with my face on it?” Natasha asks, mildly incredulous, peeking out at Tony from beneath her arm.
And - okay, well, then not her face per se. A silhouette and red hair, huh? That sounds -
Pretty fucking cool, if she’s honest.
“Huh. Might have to buy one of those.”
They’ve given you a great pair on them and quite the ass too. The pose… tch, I don’t see how the human body could contort that way, but who am I to judge?
Natasha smirks sharply, and covers her eyes again with the crook of her arm.
“You’d be surprised,” is all she has to say to that, going back to enjoying the massage instead.
It’s easy to ignore his ramblings about the shortcomings of SHIELD’s tech, but she has no doubt that he actually is going to have a talk with Nick. And that there will be some new gadgets for them on the way sooner rather than later.
At his words, Natasha crooks her eyebrow but adds another text to the first one, quoting Tony’s request for Clint - he can decide himself what to do with that.
It’s only about half a minute before she gets a reply. And Natasha laughs, quiet and brief, and glances over at Tony, reading the message out loud for him. “Tell tinhead to buy his own damn cigars.”
Despite that, Natasha is reasonably sure that there’ll be some South American cigars going over into Stark’s possession once Clint gets back home. But she doesn’t tell him that just yet.
“Pepper owns a bunch of t-shirts with my face on it? Huh. Might have to buy one of those.”
Is that a note pride he can hear in her voice?
Mouth curling into a half smirk, he hummed, eyes on his task as he spoke, thumbs pushing against the ball of her foot. “She does – she’s all about Girl Power, y’know. Very Twenty First Century.” His thumbs moved to her heel, the circles board as he rubbed. “They make great PJ’s, apparently.” Hey, at least now he had a Christmas gift idea – who wouldn’t love receiving something with their face on it?
“With you? Sounds about right. It’s part of your…” pulling a face, trying to think of a word, he begrudgingly settled on, tone slightly teasing, “charm. Yeah. Well go with that.”
Moving onto her other foot, he glanced up at her laugh, making a questioning noise at the back of his throat – and who would think, someone so deadly could have such a cute laugh. (He’s taking calling her cute to his grave, he has no problem admitting to himself that she’d kick his ass… but if he’s going to go, he wouldn’t mind it being via her Thighs of Doom.)
“Tell tinhead to buy his own damn cigars.”
“Rude. Tell him his floor’s gunna be painted pink.” Uh. Had he’d mentioned the (underway, soon to be completed) construction plans to the tower? Abort, abort. “In fact, tell him he can have SHIELD issued arrows until his dying day and not the fun ones I’ve mocked up for him. Ingrate.”
She’s all about Girl Power, y’know. Very Twenty First Century. They make great PJs, apparently.
Natasha lets out a quiet laugh, but then has to bite down on her lower lip against the low sound, a mix between pain and pleasure that threatens to spill out instead, because, fuck, that spot there at her heel has always been a bit of a physical weak spot of hers. There’s just that one string of muscles that starts to ache sometimes after long, physically straining days, right where it’s attached to the bone of her heel. Natasha can still remember how often she had sat there as a teenager, digging her thumb in along that muscle to get it to ease up.
She loses her focus on the conversation for a moment, tuning back in a few long seconds later.
… part of your - charm. Yeah. We’ll go with that.
Natasha huffs out a small, amused huff, but it’s only when he lets slip a very, very interesting little comment, that she feels the need to jump back into the conversation.
She never minds letting other people talk so that she can listen, and Tony is rather entertaining more often than not.
“His floor?” Natasha repeats, drawing up her eyebrow at Tony even while he quickly continues, trying to bowl over what he just said. “That is incredibly interesting, let’s go back to that for a moment. If he gets a floor, does that mean I get a floor? Are you making floors for us in your new tower?” she wants to know, the smile widening on her face.
He flicks his eyes over to her, at every grunt of pain and every snuff of amusement, deft fingers working away at her feet; it was nice, just to sit here for a moment and breathe, even if he did have an internal countdown going as to when his newest suit designs would be fabricated to his wishes. He wouldn’t be able to tell you the last time he just sat somewhere for an extended period of time, not actually doing anything.
He’s just talking at her, all babble and most of it has no meaning, until it does and he slips and this is why Pepper never told him about Rhodey’s surprise thirtieth birthday party, because he can’t hold his own fucking piss.
Why he thought a fucking distraction would work, he has no idea; she was sharp enough to ferret out hidden information, let alone shit that’s handed to her on a silver platter.
“That is incredibly interesting, let’s go back to that for a moment. If he gets a floor, does that mean I get a floor? Are you making floors for us in your new tower?”
“Technically the same tower,” is what he mutters in reply, pressing his thumbs in hard against the arch of her foot, right against a knot of tension. “Also: not interesting. Pragmatic. Loki did a hellav job on the tower, seemed a shame to not put the giant ‘A’ he so thoughtfully left there to good use. Rooms might’ve been put to one side for our gang of misfits to use if they’re ever in New York,” massive understatement there, “and what of it?”
He didn’t mean to come across quite so defensive – which was stupid, why was he getting defensive, it’s his tower, he can build whatever rooms he wants and besides, it wasn’t like Natasha was mocking him, chill the fuck out Tony, not everyone and everything is out to get you – and he made a concentrated effort to loosen his shoulders that had somehow ended up hunched up under his ears.
“What I meant to say, is yes. Your name is on one of them. But Barton’s is gunna be pink now. Hot pink. Pink everywhere.”
