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
( ... )
Eventually he does settle to the involved process of reassembling the engine. With every gear and piston that slots neatly back into place, a little tension ebbs from his stance. This is as close as he ever comes to being at peace; hands moving with unhesitating precision, the components scattered over the workbench coming back together into an intricate whole under his touch. In a startlingly short space of time what had been an apparently chaotic jumble of cogs and levers is becoming recognizable as the engine it started out as.
"I guess that makes sense," he concedes, lifting a bolt and inspecting it for a moment before screwing it into place. He hadn't ever really thought about it from that point of view before, but now she comes to mention it- yeah, that's a whole new level of uncomfortable and disturbing. And seriously, what kind of life has she had that she thinks about things like this?
"Huh." He pauses and gives her a long, speculative sort of look. "...I can't picture you as a blonde. That's weird."
There's something almost soothing about watching all those little pieces growing into a whole under Tony's hands, and one of Natasha's quick glances over just sort of... sticks. She doesn't know where this strange sort of fascination with things being built rather than torn down comes from. Because she never used to have a problem with being what she is. Tearing things down gave her purpose, made her feel alive. Used to be it was the only thing that filled up the aching emptiness that seems to have settled in the center of her, spreading a little with each passing month. But, regardless from where it stems, the fascination is there now, and as Tony works, a little bit of the returned tension bleeds out of her.
It's strangely comforting the way that he'll talk to her without looking at her. Clint looks at her all the time, and it's nice not to have such a captive audience for once. She sets the screwdriver down on the workbench opposite of the one he's working on, puts her hands flat against the scarred surface and jumps up on it in a
( ... )
His eyes flicker to her as she hops up to sit on the workbench, hands not pausing, and there's a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he returns his attention to the engine. He's pretty sure their Natasha would hurt him for thinking this - he's pretty sure this Natasha would hurt him for thinking this - but there's something weirdly endearing about her right now. Which, he absolutely did not just have that thought and would not admit to it even facing a firing squad. But...yeah.
"I went blonde once," he comments, leaning down to bolt the sump pan back on. "Tried to, anyway. It didn't really work out that well." He smirks to himself and elaborates. "Some stupid bet. I must have been...what, about fifteen?"
Instead of the screwdriver, Natasha picks up what looks vaguely like two wide cogwheels stuck together on a metal rod which is about the length of her hand from the heel of her palm to the tip of her index finger. She turns it over absently in her hands. The pad of her thumb catches against the teeth of the left cogwheel, and it turns with surprising ease. But, her attention doesn't actually waver from Tony and whatever he's building.
Natasha tilts her head to the side and frowns as she considers Tony's face. Her eyes narrow slightly and then she nods slowly. "I can sorta picture that?" She crinkles her nose slightly. It's not a bad mental image as such. Let's just say she's glad that he stuck with the brown. "Did you at least win the bet?"
"I did," he confirms. And that's the main thing, right? With a smirk he elaborates; "I got into an argument with my lab partner about whether or not the peroxide we were using was the same stuff they put in hair dye. Turns out I was right, but I'm not sure it was worth it." He'd be the first to concede that the overall effect had been kind of ridiculous. But hey, there's no end to the number of poor judgement calls that can be excused by being fifteen and stupid.
Natasha shoots Tony a wide grin in congratulations on the victory. Whether it's a bet, a mission or a game, the only thing that matters is winning. All other things are secondary to that. Well, maybe not all things... "Depends, I suppose. How long did you spend as a blonde?"
He gives a faintly bemused little smile in return, spanner twisting in his hands as he pauses in the act of tightening a bolt. It's strange to see her grinning at him like that. Nice, but strange. "About a month," he replies. Just long enough to satisfy the demands of pride - what, like he was going to admit it'd been a terrible decision - before he surreptitiously acquired some actual dye to return his hair to something approaching its natural color.
Natasha tilts her head to the side, and the grin is replaced by an exaggerated frown as she pretends to think it over; weighing winning the bet against a month of blonde hair. "Worth it," she finally says with a decisive nod of her head. "But just barely."
She ducks her head and twists one of the cog wheels two times around its rod. "They dyed my hair back after two weeks that time," she offers, darting a quick look up at him. "Would've been sooner, but the mission was a bitch to finish."
"The red suits you better," he says. He's trying again to picture her as a blonde and it's really just not working for him at all. It's the black and red he associates with Natasha, the widow's colors; it just looks right on her in a way that defies any sort of rational explanation. There's a spark of curiosity about the mission she's mentioned, but he doesn't ask.
The last bolt winds in tight against its washer, and he sets the spanner down on the workbench. Cams next, yeah? Or maybe the valves- no, getting ahead of himself there. Definitely the cams. "Pass me a screwdriver?" he asks without thinking, extending a hand in her direction.
"The brown suits you better," Natasha retorts with a quick grin, her heel drumming incessantly against the table leg.
Surprise flashes across her features at his question, followed by a flicker of something darker that might be apprehension, and her foot stills midair. But it's only a matter of a second before a very pleased sort of smile lights up her face. "Uh, sure." Whatever thing she's been fiddling with goes down on the work bench on a pile of other fiddly little things with a soft rattle and she picks up the screwdriver from beside her thigh instead. She hops down from her perch, walks over to his workbench, leans across it and holds the screwdriver out with the handle first. "This one good?"
Tony glances up. "Yeah, that's perfect," he says, giving the screwdriver an approving sort of look and taking it. Screwdriver in hand he sets about the excessively fiddly business of replacing the valves.
"Good." Natasha leans her elbows against the work bench, somehow finding a bit of clear space amidst the clutter and she watches Tony with some interest as he's engrossed by the task at hand.
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"I guess that makes sense," he concedes, lifting a bolt and inspecting it for a moment before screwing it into place. He hadn't ever really thought about it from that point of view before, but now she comes to mention it- yeah, that's a whole new level of uncomfortable and disturbing. And seriously, what kind of life has she had that she thinks about things like this?
"Huh." He pauses and gives her a long, speculative sort of look. "...I can't picture you as a blonde. That's weird."
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It's strangely comforting the way that he'll talk to her without looking at her. Clint looks at her all the time, and it's nice not to have such a captive audience for once. She sets the screwdriver down on the workbench opposite of the one he's working on, puts her hands flat against the scarred surface and jumps up on it in a ( ... )
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"I went blonde once," he comments, leaning down to bolt the sump pan back on. "Tried to, anyway. It didn't really work out that well." He smirks to himself and elaborates. "Some stupid bet. I must have been...what, about fifteen?"
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Natasha tilts her head to the side and frowns as she considers Tony's face. Her eyes narrow slightly and then she nods slowly. "I can sorta picture that?" She crinkles her nose slightly. It's not a bad mental image as such. Let's just say she's glad that he stuck with the brown. "Did you at least win the bet?"
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She ducks her head and twists one of the cog wheels two times around its rod. "They dyed my hair back after two weeks that time," she offers, darting a quick look up at him. "Would've been sooner, but the mission was a bitch to finish."
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The last bolt winds in tight against its washer, and he sets the spanner down on the workbench. Cams next, yeah? Or maybe the valves- no, getting ahead of himself there. Definitely the cams. "Pass me a screwdriver?" he asks without thinking, extending a hand in her direction.
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Surprise flashes across her features at his question, followed by a flicker of something darker that might be apprehension, and her foot stills midair. But it's only a matter of a second before a very pleased sort of smile lights up her face. "Uh, sure." Whatever thing she's been fiddling with goes down on the work bench on a pile of other fiddly little things with a soft rattle and she picks up the screwdriver from beside her thigh instead. She hops down from her perch, walks over to his workbench, leans across it and holds the screwdriver out with the handle first. "This one good?"
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