Now in fairness, it should be pointed out that he almost never notices Natasha approaching unless he just so happens to be facing her at the time. The woman moves like a cat. And of course when he's absorbed in a project in the workshop, the rest of the world might as well cease to exist. Add to that the music blasting full volume, and the screaming whine of the angle grinder just audible over it, he wouldn't have been distracted from his current task by a tactical air strike. Tinted goggles sit over his eyes, reflecting the sparks flying from the unsprung component unfortunate enough to have attracted his attention
( ... )
The sudden silence strikes like a blow and Natasha's fingers curve nervously around the small (but deadly) throwing knife that's tucked away safely in a holster at the small of her back. It's the one weapon that Clint let her keep (against Fury's express orders, though Natasha doesn't know that) once they got themselves situated in the tower. An exercise in trust from both of them. Her trusting him enough to surrender her weapons. Him trusting her enough to leave her one
( ... )
Tony rests his elbows on the workbench and appraises her thoughtfully. He followed the process of tracking her down and bringing her back in from a distance, helping mostly by providing tech and intel, and occasionally a shoulder to rant on when Clint was particularly frustrated with the situation. Not that Tony's much less frustrated. He's had to lie low in the tower for nearly two months now and he's starting to go a little stir-crazy. But she's back now and in theory - in theory - soon things can start getting back to normal.
Except...well, she's not her is she? He can't pin it down to anything specific, but there's undeniably something different; something in the way she carries herself, a tension that wasn't there before. It's a subtle thing, but it's enough to make it inescapably clear that she's not the same person. He scratches absently at his cheek, leaving a smear of slick black engine oil behind, and as her gaze flickers to his chest his hand unconsciously follows it. The warm, smooth casing of the arc reactor hums
( ... )
Tony's right about the tension. Not all of it stems from the fact that the past self she's been thrown back into carried herself differently though. Sure, there's a difference to the body language of a girl who has come to expect nothing but violence from everyone in her life, from that of a woman who knows her place in the world. But, a lot of the tension singing through her muscles comes from the fact that she's in a strange place filled with strangers who all know her while she doesn't know anything about them. Or not enough, at any rate.
"He hasn't--" Natasha shakes her head. Clint hasn't told her much about any of the other Avengers. Hell, they're still on her. A decade and change is a lot of time to cover.
The little bit of information about their relationship sends her tension levels sky-rocketing though. She doesn't know how much more she can take of other people telling her who she is. She appreciates what Hawkeye -- fuck Clint -- is doing for her, but it's hard finding out about herself second-hand. Especially when she
( ... )
He slides the goggles up and off, setting them down on the workbench next to the wishbone he'd been trimming before she came in, and runs a hand through his hair. This doesn't really achieve anything in the way of neatening it, but it does redistribute the grime and has it sticking up in new and interesting ways. His eyebrows go up at the aborted sentence. Huh. He'd assumed Clint would have filled her in. But then there's got to be a lot of ground to cover.
"Yep," he agrees without hesitation. He'd be the first to concede that he was being an asshole of truly epic proportions at that particular point in his life. He has absolutely no intention of apologizing for it, but he doesn't have any problem admitting it. Of course all that means nothing to her now; it's gone like everything else. In a strange way it's refreshing to have a blank slate. To be around her without that appallingly bad first impression coloring things
( ... )
Natasha tracks Tony's every motion with her eyes. It's not obvious, but not as subtle as she'd like either. He's older than she (both compared to how she feels and her actual age), but surprisingly fit and more attractive dressed-up and greased down than in any of the slick publicity photos of him that she's seen. Her eyes keep coming back to that glow in the middle of his chest though. What is that even?
Tony's easy admission of having deserved the stabbing surprises a snorted laugh from her. It's momentary at best but it drives some of the shadows from her eyes.
It's a relief that he doesn't know her that well. No matter how well-intentioned Clint is, and no matter how much she likes him, being around him is exhausting sometimes. He knows the person she ought to be better than she does, and sometimes she catches him searching her for any sign that that person might still be in there, somewhere. He's her lifeline and when he isn't there she misses, but damn he makes her feel guilty sometimes. For not being right.Of course, him
( ... )
"I noticed," he says dryly. By no stretch of the imagination could any version of her he'd ever met be described as a people person. His gaze automatically tracks her hands, keeping an eye on what she's touching. Not that he thinks she's going to purposely interfere with anything. But those damn M4 washers have a habit of spontaneously vanishing and he'd rather not have to spend half an hour hunting around on the floor for that one missing one. Chaotic as the workshop might have looked, everything in it was exactly where it was supposed to be.
He eyes the extended hand warily for a second, eyes flickering up to her face and back again. Even now - especially now, in fact - Natasha exudes an air of don't touch. Contrary to popular opinion, he's not totally devoid of common sense, and he likes the number of fingers he has. But in the end he gives a mental shrug and just accepts it. "Tony," he responds, reaching out and taking her hand in one of his own scarred and callused ones. For a 'billionaire playboy' he really does have the hands
( ... )
Natasha never learned to play nice with others as a child. In fact, she was encouraged not to if it wasn't for a mission. It's not something she has dwelled on. But she has noticed that her social skills aren't really up to par. It's never mattered much before, because friends are a liability, never an asset. And what's more, they steal away the loyalty that rightly belongs to the Red Room. No. Making friends was not encouraged. In fact, her strange sort of friendship with Ha-- Clint was always a secret sort of a rebellion. This one thing they didn't give her, and as long as she kept it to herself they couldn't take it away either
( ... )
He goes abruptly still, and this time the hand that goes straight to the reactor is anything but unconscious. "Piercing," he says flippantly, but his eyes are intent on her face and his expression is shuttered. Intellectually, he knew that of course this had been wiped too. But it's still strange and jarring to have her casually questioning something she'd known since before he even met her. This really isn't their Natasha
( ... )
Natasha can tell that she's taken a wrong turn somewhere. Stepped on a nerve without realising and now he's shutting down on her. Shutting her out. Which is-- unfortunate, seeing as how he's the second person here she's even spoken to at all. She takes some comfort in the fact that it's how she finds out her third fact about Tony Stark though. One, he isn't anything like the papers make him out to be. Two, he has calloused hands (which earns him a hell of a lot of respect in her book). Three, he uses humor as a defence. Possibly as a weapon as well, but that's pure conjecture on her part.
Next, she expects that he'll excuse himself. He has a lot of work to do, she isn't meant to be here, and he can gesture towards the piles of metal littering the workshop and-- He doesn't. Instead, he's pulling up his shirt, and she can see the tension in his shoulders, but he's still doing it. Which is somehow touching
( ... )
If he'd given it any thought, he would have found the idea of her assessing him as a threat on any level utterly ridiculous. Not that he's completely defenseless or anything. He has pretty good reflexes, and an absurdly high pain threshold; and maybe he's never going to be built like Thor or Steve, or even Clint, but the armor weighs more than he does and steering it in flight is a whole-body process. But he's not a fighter by nature. He'd rather talk his way out of a problem; violence was always going to be a distant second choice
( ... )
It's odd, but seeing Tony this tense is actually making Natasha relax. There's a level of tension in her that never truly goes away, a baseline thrumming through her body at all times. But the extra tension that's been making her shoulders and jaw ache ever since she crept into the workshop? That is slowly seeping out of her, making her features soften slightly. It doesn't take a genius to tell that he isn't comfortable with the situation, but despite that fact, he's staying put and trusting her. And it's oddly comforting not being the only one fighting to trust people here
( ... )
He catches the blank expression. Oh yeah. He forgets about that sometimes. He takes a few moments to mentally translate what he'd said from Engineer back to English. "Basically it's a power generator," he clarifies. A fleeting grin passes over his face. "Yeah, I know it's on the small side. Size isn't everything. This baby could power a city." Of course after that, her next question is an obvious one. He did more or less see it coming even if he had been holding out some foolishly optimistic hope that she might not ask.
Now normally this isn't the sort of thing he'd just tell someone. Especially not someone who is effectively a complete stranger. But for some reason it's easier to get the words out this time; maybe it's because it's something he feels like she's supposed to know. And maybe the truth is a little thing when he's already letting her this close, leaving himself this exposed. There's something strangely reassuring about the firm, warm touch against his stomach
( ... )
Why anyone would need something generating enough power to run a city lodged in their chest is pretty beyond Natasha. Her mind's already spinning to sort out the why (coming up with outlandish ideas like Tony being a cyborg of some kind or him… No, actually. Just that. 'Cause what else could it be?) when Tony tells her.
Natasha blinks. She's pretty sure that Tony just told her how she can kill him, in the most painfully slow way imaginable. The arc reactor looks pretty sturdy, but give her the right tools and she's pretty sure she could break it. Hell, there's probably something in this very workshop that could do irreparable harm to the thing keeping his heart from being torn apart by shrapnel.
"Wow. That's-- That really sucks." She can't help but staring at him, wide-eyed and questioning, her hand stilling completely against his skin. How is he trusting her this much? He said it himself, he barely knows the woman she's supposedly grown into, and yet here he is, giving up all of his secrets. There's a sudden, intense pressure over
( ... )
"Shit happens, huh?" he says with a half shrug and a wry little smirk. It's the closest thing to a sensible response he can come up with. He feels like he should probably explain why the hell he's telling her this, but to be frank he's not entirely sure himself. He can't come up with any response that doesn't sound totally nonsensical
( ... )
"It sure does." Natasha couldn't agree more. Hell, she apparently had a nice life carved out for herself when her brain short-circuited and tossed her ten years back in time, mentally. It's not the same as the shrapnel trying to inch its way to his heart, but it still fucking sucks. Just in a different way
( ... )
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Except...well, she's not her is she? He can't pin it down to anything specific, but there's undeniably something different; something in the way she carries herself, a tension that wasn't there before. It's a subtle thing, but it's enough to make it inescapably clear that she's not the same person. He scratches absently at his cheek, leaving a smear of slick black engine oil behind, and as her gaze flickers to his chest his hand unconsciously follows it. The warm, smooth casing of the arc reactor hums ( ... )
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"He hasn't--" Natasha shakes her head. Clint hasn't told her much about any of the other Avengers. Hell, they're still on her. A decade and change is a lot of time to cover.
The little bit of information about their relationship sends her tension levels sky-rocketing though. She doesn't know how much more she can take of other people telling her who she is. She appreciates what Hawkeye -- fuck Clint -- is doing for her, but it's hard finding out about herself second-hand. Especially when she ( ... )
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"Yep," he agrees without hesitation. He'd be the first to concede that he was being an asshole of truly epic proportions at that particular point in his life. He has absolutely no intention of apologizing for it, but he doesn't have any problem admitting it. Of course all that means nothing to her now; it's gone like everything else. In a strange way it's refreshing to have a blank slate. To be around her without that appallingly bad first impression coloring things ( ... )
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Tony's easy admission of having deserved the stabbing surprises a snorted laugh from her. It's momentary at best but it drives some of the shadows from her eyes.
It's a relief that he doesn't know her that well. No matter how well-intentioned Clint is, and no matter how much she likes him, being around him is exhausting sometimes. He knows the person she ought to be better than she does, and sometimes she catches him searching her for any sign that that person might still be in there, somewhere. He's her lifeline and when he isn't there she misses, but damn he makes her feel guilty sometimes. For not being right.Of course, him ( ... )
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He eyes the extended hand warily for a second, eyes flickering up to her face and back again. Even now - especially now, in fact - Natasha exudes an air of don't touch. Contrary to popular opinion, he's not totally devoid of common sense, and he likes the number of fingers he has. But in the end he gives a mental shrug and just accepts it. "Tony," he responds, reaching out and taking her hand in one of his own scarred and callused ones. For a 'billionaire playboy' he really does have the hands ( ... )
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Next, she expects that he'll excuse himself. He has a lot of work to do, she isn't meant to be here, and he can gesture towards the piles of metal littering the workshop and-- He doesn't. Instead, he's pulling up his shirt, and she can see the tension in his shoulders, but he's still doing it. Which is somehow touching ( ... )
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Now normally this isn't the sort of thing he'd just tell someone. Especially not someone who is effectively a complete stranger. But for some reason it's easier to get the words out this time; maybe it's because it's something he feels like she's supposed to know. And maybe the truth is a little thing when he's already letting her this close, leaving himself this exposed. There's something strangely reassuring about the firm, warm touch against his stomach ( ... )
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Natasha blinks. She's pretty sure that Tony just told her how she can kill him, in the most painfully slow way imaginable. The arc reactor looks pretty sturdy, but give her the right tools and she's pretty sure she could break it. Hell, there's probably something in this very workshop that could do irreparable harm to the thing keeping his heart from being torn apart by shrapnel.
"Wow. That's-- That really sucks." She can't help but staring at him, wide-eyed and questioning, her hand stilling completely against his skin. How is he trusting her this much? He said it himself, he barely knows the woman she's supposedly grown into, and yet here he is, giving up all of his secrets. There's a sudden, intense pressure over ( ... )
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