Chapter 2
Over the past ten months, Tony Stark had been the perfect companion to Natasha Romanoff. Not perfect in the sense of flawlessness—because Tony Stark was many things, but flawless was not one of them—but perfect in the sense that he had been everything she hadn’t realized she needed. He never pried when she needed space, but he was always there when she needed an ear. He listened to her rants without dismissing them, let her take her frustrations out on him when words weren’t enough. When she needed to sharpen her skills, he was her test dummy—enduring every strike, every throw, every blow without complaint. He never retaliated, never struck back, just let her work through whatever demons were gnawing at her that day. And when the world thought of Tony Stark as reckless, arrogant, and impulsive, Natasha saw something else entirely. Beneath the genius and the smirks was a man who, against all odds, had been nothing but patient and kind to her.
But she had still betrayed him.
He’d known she would—of course, he had. He saw things others didn’t, read between the lines in ways most couldn’t. He knew Natasha had spent her life running from being on the wrong side, that she couldn’t stomach the idea of standing against what the world deemed "good." And yet, despite knowing that, despite anticipating the moment she would turn against him, he had let her in anyway. He had let her matter. He had let himself care. And when the time came, he didn’t even try to stop her. When she chose Captain America’s side, when she let Steve and Bucky go, Tony hadn't fought her, hadn't begged her to stay, hadn't even let her see just how deeply she had cut him. He had just let her go. Because, at the end of the day, he would rather have been the one left behind than be the one to cage her.
And then he had died.
Not once. Not twice. But five times. First, in Siberia, when Steve Rogers had driven his shield straight into his arc reactor, silencing the very thing that had kept him alive. He had whispered nothing but two words before the world faded into nothing—"you win." The second time was on the ground, when his body gave out again from the damage. The third and fourth were on the jet back to America, as medics worked frantically to keep him stable. The fifth time… well, that had been his choice. Because as soon as he was conscious enough to rip the IVs out of his arms and stand, he had decided he was done. Done with another man's war, done with the fight, done with the teams, done with the expectations.
Malibu had been waiting for him, but not for long. He had gone back, but only to rebuild. A new arc reactor. A new suit. A new plan. And then he would be gone. Where? He hadn’t figured that out yet. All he knew was that the mansion on the cliffs had never felt like home, not even before he knew what home was.
But a part of him had hoped, in some distant, foolish way, that she had left something. A note, maybe. A sign that she had at least considered what she had done before walking away. But when he stepped inside, still clad in his suit, he hadn’t expected to see her.
She was standing against his kitchen counter, a first-aid kit open, treating her wounds as if she belonged there. As if she hadn’t torn through him 72 hours ago.
Tony let his mask flip up, his expression unreadable as his dark eyes settled on her. He hovered there, suspended in the air, taking her in—the bruises, the cuts, the exhaustion in her frame. And then, finally, he spoke.
"Romanoff?"
"Stark," Natasha's voice was steady, but there was a sharp edge beneath it, one that Tony immediately recognized—pain laced with forced control. She was pressing gauze against the deep gash on her side, the wound stretching along her ribcage and oozing black-tinged blood. Poison. A slow-acting venom, if the dark streaks creeping from the cut were any indication. Her tactical jacket and vest were unzipped, revealing the injury, but Tony didn’t spare a glance at her exposed skin—his focus was entirely on the wound.
"Let's get you down to my lab," he said, voice clipped but controlled, his mind already calculating antidotes, treatment options, and worst-case scenarios. "You know where the medical table is. Sit there and wait, and try not to mess with my stuff while I change and grab you some clothes."
Natasha hesitated when he moved to pick her up, instinct warring against logic. But Tony didn’t wait for permission—he simply lifted her with an ease that shouldn't have been possible, cradling her against his chest as if she weighed nothing. She didn’t argue, but she stiffened, and he sighed. "Let’s not talk about anything else right now. Just this," he murmured, almost as if reading her mind. She said nothing.
Tony carried her into his lab, setting her down gently on the medical table. She exhaled sharply, the pain likely worse now that she wasn’t upright, but she only pressed her lips together and muttered, "Sorry."
He didn’t respond. He turned his back to her and left the room without another word.
Upstairs, Tony changed quickly, slipping into a pair of uncuffed black Nike sweats that pooled slightly over his feet, along with black Ugg slippers. He pulled on a fitted black compression tank top, the fabric cut at the chest to accommodate his arc reactor, its faint glow casting eerie shadows along his scarred skin. He moved through his villa like a ghost, silent, efficient, focused.
From her room—well, technically the guest room, but it might as well have been hers considering how often she crashed at his place between missions—he grabbed a pair of white Nike sweats and an oversized red retro hoodie she had stashed there.
When he returned, she was still sitting where he left her, though her hands were clenched into tight fists against the table's edge, her breathing steady despite the poison working its way through her system. He set the clothes beside her before stepping in to help her remove the rest of her tactical gear.
"Jacket first," he said.
She hesitated again, but finally let him slip it off, followed by the vest. That left her in only her bra from the waist up, her skin still damp with sweat from the fight. Tony barely reacted—his eyes stayed locked on the wound, his mind already working through possible toxins. He grabbed a scanner, running it over the injury with the same precision a surgeon would.
Natasha watched him, her sharp mind catching the way his movements were fluid, practiced, clinical. It wasn’t just intelligence—there was training behind it. The kind of training that spoke of experience, of repetition, of necessity. It was another glimpse into something she had always suspected but never confirmed.
Tony Stark wasn’t just a genius. He wasn’t just a billionaire with an iron suit.
He was something else. Something that didn’t quite fit the narrative SHIELD had given her.
She said nothing.
Tony worked in silence, running samples through his bio-printer, analyzing the poison in seconds. He moved with ruthless efficiency, preparing an antidote before cleaning the wound with almost mechanical precision. When the antidote was ready, he applied it carefully, watching for any reaction as he began to wrap her torso with medical tape.
"What happened?" he finally asked, voice calm, but with an undertone that wasn’t quite casual.
Natasha’s jaw tightened. "Clint accidentally shot me."
Tony’s hands stilled for half a second before continuing. "Clint never misses," he said, his voice unreadable.
She exhaled through her nose. "He wasn’t aiming for me."
Tony didn’t blink, but his fingers flexed slightly as he finished securing the tape around her ribs. "Who was he aiming for?"
"Steve."
Silence.
Tony leaned back, his dark eyes locked onto hers, something unreadable flickering behind the gold flecks in his gaze. "And you took the hit instead."
Natasha shrugged, the motion making her wince. "I made a choice."
Tony scoffed, shaking his head as he reached for the waistband of her tactical pants. "Lift."
She gave him a dry look. "I can handle the pain."
He didn’t hesitate, pulling at the fastenings. "Just because you can handle it doesn’t mean you need to." His voice was flat, but there was something else beneath it—something she couldn’t quite place.
She let out a quiet breath and did as he asked, allowing him to carefully slide her pants down. The wound along her side stretched as she moved, but she didn't so much as flinch. Tony’s jaw tightened as he helped her into the white sweats, making sure they rested comfortably against her bandaged torso before pulling the hoodie over her head.
When she finally looked at him, her green eyes were searching. "Why are you helping me?"
Tony didn’t hesitate. "Because I care."
The words settled between them like a loaded gun.
Natasha stared at him, and for the first time in a long time, she didn’t know what to say.
Tony exhaled slowly and turned away, beginning to clean up the space, discarding the used medical tools with precise, measured movements. The air between them remained thick with unspoken things, neither of them willing to be the first to crack.
And then, finally, he spoke again.
"You could’ve run anywhere." His voice was quiet but firm. "Why here?"
Natasha smirked, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “What can I say? The minibar selection is better than most places I’ve been.”
Tony arched a brow, unimpressed but entertained. “Oh, sure. Because a billionaire’s Malibu Villa is just a glorified 7-Eleven to you?”
She tilted her head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Well, do you have Slurpees?”
“Romanoff, if I had Slurpees, you wouldn’t be standing here pretending you didn’t come to see me.”
Her smirk twitched. Damn him. He always had an answer, always saw through her, and somehow always knew when she needed him to. She rolled her eyes, pushing past him into the suite. “Fine. Maybe I just missed your winning personality.”
He let out a soft chuckle as he closed the door behind her. “That’s a first.”
They fell into an easy rhythm of banter, the kind she used as armor, the kind he allowed because he understood it. He didn’t push, didn’t pry, just matched her pace. A gentleman, even when being a smart-ass.
But then the silence stretched a little too long, the weight between them shifting into something heavier, something real. Natasha exhaled, running a hand through her hair, suddenly unable to meet his eyes.
Tony’s expression softened, though the sharp intelligence in his gold-flecked eyes never wavered. He took a step closer, slow and deliberate, making sure she saw he wasn’t a threat. “You don’t have to justify it, Romanoff. You don’t have to explain why you needed somewhere to go.”
She let out a shaky breath. “After I found out what Steve did, after I realized why you—why you hated the Winter Soldier… it changed everything.” Her voice caught, and she hated it, hated how raw she felt around him. “I was so blinded by my own fear, my own past, that I didn’t see the whole picture. But I do now.”
Tony watched her, unreadable for a long moment. Then, finally, his voice was steady, certain, no hesitation.
“I will always pick up the phone,” he said. “I will always come get you. And I will always help you, no matter what.”
Her breath hitched, but he wasn’t done.
“And I get it,” he continued, his gaze steady on hers. “More than you know. Even though I know I don’t even know the surface of you.” He let out a soft, bitter laugh. “You and I? We’re a couple of broken people trying to pretend we have all the pieces.”
Natasha’s throat tightened. It was the truth, and for once, it didn’t terrify her to hear it spoken out loud.
She swallowed, nodding. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Yeah, we are.”
Tony exhaled sharply through his nose, something almost resembling a laugh, but there was no humor in it. Just exhaustion. The kind that settled deep in his bones, the kind that even his accelerated healing and inhuman pain tolerance couldn’t do a damn thing about.
“See, Romanoff,” he finally said, his voice light, teasing, but with that razor-sharp edge beneath it, “I don’t think we are.” He turned his head slightly, finally meeting her eyes, and for the first time since he’d walked back into the villa, she saw it.
The hurt.
Not the kind of pain that came from Siberia—the shattered bones, the bleeding-out, the flatlining—no, that pain was easy. That pain he could handle. This was different. This was a blade lodged somewhere deep in his chest, not from Captain America’s shield, but from her.
And the worst part? He knew it was coming. He saw it from a mile away. He had predicted it, accounted for it. And yet, somehow, it still fucking hurt.
Natasha’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Tony—”
“Ah, careful, Romanoff,” he cut in, his voice a low drawl, “almost sounded like you were gonna explain yourself.”
She stiffened, a flicker of something—guilt, maybe—crossing her face before she shut it down just as quickly. Classic Natasha. Always in control. Always keeping her cards close to the vest.
But Tony Stark wasn’t just any opponent.
He took a step forward, slow and deliberate, watching her carefully. “You know, I should be impressed,” he mused. “Ten months, and you actually had me going. Thought maybe—just maybe—you weren’t like the others. That I could trust you.” He tilted his head. “That was my mistake, though, wasn’t it?”
Her breath hitched so subtly that most people wouldn’t have noticed. But Tony wasn’t most people.
“You can trust me,” she said, voice steady, but her eyes gave her away.
Tony let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “Yeah? And what exactly should I trust, Nat?” He gestured vaguely. “The lies? The cover stories? The betrayal?”
She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t look away either. That was the thing about Natasha—she didn’t cower, didn’t make excuses. She stood in the fire, let it burn, but never let it consume her.
“You knew,” she finally said.
Tony arched a brow. “Knew what?”
“That I would choose Steve.”
His jaw clenched, a flicker of something dark in his eyes.
“I knew you wouldn’t choose me,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”
She inhaled sharply, and for a moment, just a moment, she looked like she wanted to say something—something real, something that wasn’t calculated or measured—but then it was gone. Locked away behind that impenetrable wall she built around herself.
Tony sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before giving her a wry smile. “You know what the funny part is?”
She said nothing.
“I would’ve picked you.”
Silence.
Natasha’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, but she didn’t look away from him, didn’t run, didn’t try to spin the conversation back in her favor.
She just stood there.
"You know, for someone who’s supposed to be a world-class spy, your judgment is really slipping," Tony finally spoke, his voice smooth but carrying an edge of something she couldn’t quite place. "I thought you’d be better at picking the right side."
Natasha lifted an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly. "Says the guy who built murder bots and handed over world-ending tech like party favors?"
Tony smirked, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "Touché." He pushed off the counter and paced a few steps away before turning back to face her. "Thing is, I never pretended to be something I wasn’t. You, though? You looked me in the eye and lied, Romanoff."
Natasha crossed her arms, ignoring the slight pull of the stitches along her ribs. "I was doing my job."
His eyes darkened. "Yeah? And when did that stop being an excuse?" His voice was quiet, but it carried weight.
She exhaled slowly, staring at him. Tony Stark, the reckless billionaire, the snarky genius, the man who should have crumbled under betrayal but was standing here, looking at her like she was the one who had been fooled.
"It was never personal," she finally said.
Tony let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head as he turned slightly, letting his gaze drift to the arc reactor glowing softly beneath his dark shirt. "Of course it wasn’t."
She didn’t know why, but the dismissal stung.
A beat of silence stretched between them before Tony broke it. "You know, it’s funny. I knew you’d betray me," he mused, running a hand through his jet-black hair. "I mean, I predicted it down to the second. Hell, I could probably pull up the probability percentages if you wanna see the data. And yet—" He paused, lips pressing into a thin line. "I still let myself think… maybe."
Natasha swallowed, forcing herself to hold his gaze. "Maybe what?"
"Maybe you wouldn’t do it," he admitted, his voice softer this time. "Maybe, for once in my life, I wasn’t the idiot who gave a damn about someone who never intended to stay."
Her fingers curled against the fabric of his Henley, suddenly feeling too warm in the heavy silence of the lab.
"You don’t know what you’re talking about," she said, but the words lacked conviction.
Tony hummed in mock agreement. "Sure. Must’ve imagined the whole thing. Just like I imagined the way you looked at me when I took you to that restaurant. Or the way you let your guard down—just a little—when you thought no one was watching." He tilted his head, studying her. "Tell me, Romanoff. Was that all part of the job too?"
She wanted to say yes. It would be easier. Cleaner.
But she couldn’t.
Tony scoffed at her silence, his eyes flickering with something dangerously close to disappointment. "You know, for a second there, I almost thought you saw me. Not Iron Man. Not Stark Industries' golden boy. Just me."
Natasha’s throat tightened. "I did."
Tony stilled.
Natasha’s throat tightened. “I did.”
Tony exhaled sharply, shaking his head as a humorless smirk ghosted over his lips. “No,” he corrected smoothly, voice devoid of heat, but cutting all the same. “You saw me. But you never chose to believe in me.”
Natasha stiffened, her jaw tightening instinctively. “That’s not true.”
His dark eyes, those inescapable pools of molten gold and midnight, flickered with something unreadable. “Isn’t it?” he mused, tilting his head. “Because from where I’m standing, you didn’t believe in me, Natasha. You believed in what they told you about me.”
She inhaled sharply, her heartbeat hammering against her ribs like a war drum. "I believed what I knew."
"No," Tony countered, his voice dangerously soft. "You believed what you were given. Whatever files, whatever half-truths, whatever carefully curated bullshit they fed you about me. You believed in your orders, in your mission, in Steve fucking Rogers. But you never believed in me.”
His words struck deep, lodging themselves somewhere she didn’t want to acknowledge. She tried to breathe through it, but the weight of his accusation—no, his certainty—pressed into her ribs like a vice.
“You think I wanted to betray you?” she snapped, more defensive than she intended. “You think I didn’t struggle with it?”
Tony’s smirk was bitter, his arms crossing over his broad chest. “Oh, I’m sure it was agonizing, Romanoff. Letting a man who’s had your back for ten months die a slow death. Bet it kept you up at night.”
“I did what I had to do,” she bit out.
“So did I,” he shot back, no hesitation.
That stung. Because he was right. She had made a choice. And so had he.
Silence stretched between them, thick with unsaid things, with unspoken wounds and the ghosts of what-ifs.
Natasha ran a hand through her hair, trying to steady herself. “Tony… I didn’t—”
“Didn’t what?” He stepped closer, his voice quieter now, but somehow more lethal. “Didn’t think I mattered? Didn’t think I’d make it out? Or didn’t think I’d remember that when it came down to it, you didn’t pick me?”
“I couldn’t pick you,” she hissed, her voice low but sharp. “You wanted me to stand against them—against Steve, against the team—"
“I wanted you to stand with me,” Tony corrected, his voice suddenly raw, stripped of its usual layers of charm and detachment. “Not against them. With me. But you couldn’t do that, could you?”
Natasha swallowed hard, and for the first time in years, she wasn’t sure what to say.
He studied her, his gaze burning through her like wildfire. “Tell me something, Romanoff,” he said, softer now, but no less intense. “If the roles were reversed—if I had been the one in Siberia, if I had the chance to save you or let you fall—what do you think I would’ve done?”
She hated that she already knew the answer.
Tony would have saved her. Without hesitation. Without question. He would have fought through hell and high water to keep her standing.
And she had let him fall.
Her breath hitched, but she didn’t let it show. “Tony…” she started, but even she didn’t know what she was about to say.
“Don’t,” he murmured, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t lie to me, and don’t insult me with excuses.”
She clenched her fists at her sides, frustration and guilt warring inside her. “You think this is easy for me?”
“I think it was easy enough when you made the choice,” he said simply. “I think it was easy enough to leave me there.”
“I didn't leave you,” she ground out. “I—”
“You did.” His voice was level, but unyielding. “And you can dress it up however you want, Natasha. You can call it duty, necessity, survival, but at the end of the day, I was dying on that floor, and you walked away.”
She flinched. She actually flinched.
And Tony saw it.
For the first time in a long time, she felt vulnerable under someone else’s gaze. Exposed in a way she didn’t know how to fight.
She took a slow breath. “You think I don’t regret it?”
Tony studied her, and for a second, just a second, she thought she saw something flicker in his expression. But then it was gone, buried beneath layers of pain and walls she had no idea how to break through.
“Regret’s cheap,” he said finally. “It doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t change what happened.”
She shook her head, feeling something in her chest constrict. “I didn’t want you to die, Tony.”
His lips pressed into a thin line, and when he spoke, his voice was almost too quiet. “Maybe not. But you were willing to let me.”
She sucked in a sharp breath, but he wasn’t finished.
“Here’s the thing, Romanoff,” he continued, voice steady, unreadable. “I don’t hate you for it. I get it. I do. You made a call. You chose a side. But don’t stand there and act like it wasn’t a choice.”
She exhaled shakily, looking away, because his gaze was too much, because the weight of his words was too much.
“I never wanted this,” she murmured.
Tony let out a quiet, bitter chuckle. “Yeah, well. Neither did I.”
“I didn’t—” she hesitated, eyes flickering up to meet his. They were dark, almost black, the usual gold flecks dimmed under the lab lights. “I didn’t want it to happen like that.”
Tony huffed, the sound half a laugh, half something else. “That supposed to make me feel better?” He tilted his head slightly, but there was no real heat behind it. “I was under the impression that getting stabbed through the chest and left for dead wasn’t exactly up for negotiation, but hey, maybe I missed the fine print.”
Her jaw tightened. Deflection—she recognized it, could call it out in a heartbeat. But she also recognized the way his fingers flexed at his sides, the way his shoulders didn’t quite settle like they usually did. He wasn’t lashing out. He was tired.
“I thought—” Natasha started, then stopped. She exhaled, running a hand through her hair before forcing the words out. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”
Tony didn’t react right away. He just studied her, gaze sharp despite the fatigue pressing against him. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, but it carried more weight than before.
“Yeah. So did I.”
Something in her chest twisted at that.
For all the barbs and witty retorts, for all the times he let her push and pull him in every direction just because he cared, he had never—never—looked at her like this before. Not with anger, not with betrayal. Just… understanding. And that somehow made it worse.
Her fingers curled into fists inside the sleeves of his hoodie.
“I should’ve told you,” she admitted, the words foreign on her tongue. Apologizing wasn’t something she did often, and even now, her instincts wanted to keep her spine straight, her voice even. But she forced herself to be real with him, the way he had always been with her, even when she didn’t deserve it. “But I didn’t know how.”
Tony’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze dropping briefly before he let out a breath. “Yeah,” he murmured, “welcome to the club.”
Natasha took a step forward without thinking. She wasn’t sure what she was doing, wasn’t sure if she was trying to bridge the space between them or just looking for something—anything—to hold onto. But Tony didn’t step back. He just watched her, unreadable in a way that made her stomach knot.
“Tony…” she said his name like she wasn’t sure what came next.
“Romanoff,” he returned, softer than she expected.
Her throat felt tight.
“You were the only one I trusted in that way, other than maybe Clint,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I still chose wrong.”
Tony didn’t say anything for a moment, just exhaled through his nose and rubbed a hand over his jaw. Then, with a quiet, almost resigned chuckle, he finally answered.
“Yeah. Well.” His eyes met hers again, something unreadable flickering behind them. “You’re not the only one.”