Chapter 3
Morning crept in slowly, the golden California sun bleeding through the horizon, though it held no warmth for the man already awake before dawn.
Tony had carried Natasha to bed last night, despite her protests that she could walk just fine. She’d tried to argue, tried to push herself upright, but her limbs had gone weak from the poison still leaving her system. He hadn’t listened. Instead, he’d lifted her effortlessly, ignoring her half-hearted glares as he laid her down in the guest room—her room, considering it was stocked with all her things. He never said it out loud, but if she ever bothered to notice, she’d realize he made sure she had a space of her own wherever he went.
By four in the morning, Tony was already on his run, pushing his body through the motions of exhaustion as he willed his heart rate to stay even. Then came his usual routine—weight training, mixed combat drills, a cold shower. It was muscle memory at this point, something to quiet the static in his mind. But by the time he made it to the kitchen for coffee, he wasn’t alone.
Leaning against the counter, looking about as rested as a soldier on watch, was the red princess herself.
"Romanoff," Tony greeted smoothly, his voice low and steady as he pulled two mugs from the cabinet. "Did you get any sleep?"
"Enough," Natasha replied, though the dark circles under her eyes begged to differ.
Tony hummed, pouring coffee into both mugs as he spoke. "Listen, I’m not staying here. I’m moving—to New York." He slid one of the mugs toward her, watching her expression carefully. "You can stay here and have the place to yourself, or…" He paused, taking a slow sip before continuing. "Or you can come with me, and what’s left of the Avengers can stick together. Oh, and I’ll deal with Ross, come up with some BS to keep the wolves at bay."
Natasha’s fingers tightened around her mug. "I don’t—"
Tony cut her off without hesitation. "You’re not intruding." His voice was matter-of-fact, no room for argument. "If anything, it would be the smarter move. What do you say, Miss Widow? Up for somewhere more cold and gloomy?" His lips twitched, the ghost of a smirk pulling at his features.
Natasha exhaled, rolling her eyes. "Only because you sound like a lonely dork."
"Amazing." Tony grinned, tapping his fingers against the counter. "Pack your things for the movers. We leave tonight on my jet." And with that, he turned on his heel, ready to leave the conversation behind.
But Natasha wasn’t done.
"Tony," she called, her voice quieter now—almost wary. He halted but didn’t turn around. "Are you really going to act like nothing happened?"
His jaw tightened, his back straightening. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then, without looking at her, he answered, his voice cold, controlled.
"No."
He let the silence stretch before he finally turned his head just slightly. His dark eyes, flecked with gold, locked onto her. "My first friend was shot out of the sky by a rookie hero who got cocky with some fancy tech and is now paralyzed. My team is in ruins. And to top it off, my heart took more damage, meaning I’m never escaping this thing." He tapped two fingers against his arc reactor, the glow illuminating the scars surrounding it. "Those things happened. And ‘happened’ is the key word."
Natasha's breath hitched.
"You just aided them." His voice wasn’t accusing, just blunt. "Those things weren’t your fault alone. And even if I wanted to hold it all over your head, we’d never get anywhere, now would we?" He finally turned fully, his expression unreadable. "And I hate wasting my time."
Then he walked away, leaving Natasha standing in the kitchen, gripping her coffee just a little too tightly.
The garage was dimly lit, the overhead fluorescents casting sharp shadows against the polished steel and sleek lines of Tony’s cars. The sound of approaching footsteps—calculated, precise, light—was followed by the familiar scent of Natasha’s perfume, something sharp yet subtly sweet. He didn’t turn around immediately, instead letting the moment stretch, his fingers absently rolling a set of keys across his knuckles.
She wasn’t exactly trying to be quiet, but she wasn’t making unnecessary noise either. Typical.
“Stark,” she greeted, voice even but edged with something unreadable.
Tony exhaled, finally looking at her. The red hoodie hung off her frame, the color clashing with the cold sterility of the garage. The low-waisted jeans sat almost dangerously on her hips, and for a second, he considered making a comment—something teasing, something sharp—but decided against it.
Instead, he spun the keys once more before tossing them into the air and catching them effortlessly. “Romanoff,” he replied smoothly.
He didn’t hesitate, moving toward the sleek black Audi parked near the entrance. He pulled the door open, gesturing with a casual nod. “After you.”
Natasha arched a brow, arms crossing over her chest. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Tony echoed, unfazed. “What kind of guy do you take me for?”
She scoffed. “I could list a few things.”
“Bet you could.” He smirked, stepping aside slightly, waiting.
Natasha huffed, clearly weighing whether or not to fight him on this. She could just open the door herself, prove a point, but something about the way Tony just stood there—completely unbothered, patient—made her hesitate. It wasn’t condescending. It wasn’t a power move. It was just… Tony.
Rolling her eyes, she slid into the passenger seat, making sure to give him a look as she did. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” he deadpanned, shutting the door with a solid click before rounding the car.
By the time he settled into the driver’s seat, she was already watching him, arms loosely folded. He didn’t acknowledge it right away, just started the engine with a low hum before finally flicking his gaze to hers.
“You’re in a mood,” he noted.
“You’re in a suit,” she countered.
Tony glanced down at himself, then back at her. “Not my fault I make it look this good.”
Natasha let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking her head. “Still the same Stark.”
The engine of the Audi hummed smoothly as the car cruised down the highway, the California sun barely breaking through the tinted windows. Tony had let Natasha sit wherever she pleased, and she’d taken a spot in the back, settling in with a natural ease. Meanwhile, he slid into his usual seat by the window, near the cockpit, arms resting against the smooth leather.
For a while, there was nothing but the sound of the road beneath them, the occasional distant roar of another vehicle. But then, subtly, Natasha shifted. Silent as a shadow, she moved across from him, her presence felt before he even glanced up. He didn’t comment on it. Just as she hadn’t commented on the fact that he let her choose first.
Instead, he flicked his gaze over to her, his dark eyes laced with gold catching hers in the dim lighting. “Need anything?” he asked, his voice smooth, devoid of anything but polite curiosity.
Natasha shook her head. “I’m fine.”
Tony didn’t push. Just nodded, leaned back, and, without another word, cracked open an old, hardback book. The worn cover was void of any title, the edges of the pages tanned from time and handling.
Natasha’s brows rose slightly. “Didn’t take you for the ‘cozy up with a book’ type.”
“Yeah? What type did you take me for?” Tony asked without looking up.
“The type that’s too busy creating the future to read the past.”
Tony smirked, still flipping through the aged pages. “Who said this is the past?”
Natasha’s gaze flickered to the book again, eyes narrowing as she tried to catch a glimpse of anything recognizable. No title. No publisher stamp. Nothing to indicate what it was. “So what is it?”
“Research.”
“For what?”
Tony turned a page, completely unbothered by her curiosity. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
Natasha crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly. “So it’s one of those things.”
He finally looked at her, expression unreadable yet somehow amused. “One of what things?”
“The things you pretend to be open about but actually hoard like a dragon with gold.”
Tony chuckled, shaking his head as he returned his focus to the book. “I don’t hoard everything.”
“Just anything worth knowing.”
“Maybe.” He flicked another page. “Or maybe I just like watching you try to figure it out.”
Natasha smirked, leaning back in her seat. “Keep playing your games, Stark.”
“Oh, I intend to,” he murmured, eyes never leaving the book.
Tony closed the book with a soft thud, his long fingers running absently over the cover before he slid it across the table toward Natasha.
"Finished," he said simply, leaning back in his chair as if he'd just skimmed a magazine instead of tackling a novel that was easily pushing 900 pages.
Natasha blinked, her brows knitting together. "Finished?" she echoed, skepticism lacing her voice.
"Yep." He popped the ‘p’ casually.
Her gaze flicked to the book—hardbound, thick, and dense with words. It wasn’t just any novel; it was one of her all-time favorites, a Russian fairytale twisted in manipulation and darkness. She recognized it instantly, her fingers hesitating before she picked it up, flipping it open to see the familiar text.
Of all the books in the world…
Her lips parted slightly, but she quickly masked her surprise. "This isn’t exactly light reading," she remarked.
Tony shrugged, his dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Wasn't trying to breeze through it."
She studied him, eyes narrowing slightly. "Why this book?"
His expression remained unreadable, but his voice was steady. "You mentioned it once. Ten months ago, at dinner. Said it was your favorite." He paused, watching her reaction. "Figured I’d see what the hype was about."
A quiet, unfamiliar warmth settled in her chest. He remembered?
"Once?" she challenged, tilting her head slightly.
Tony smirked, tapping the cover with a lazy finger. "Read it a few times since then."
That caught her off guard. Her heart did something irritating in her chest, but she ignored it. "You—what?"
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Eidetic memory, remember? I don’t technically need to reread it, but I do." His eyes searched hers, something softer lurking beneath the usual snark. "No reason why. Just do."
Something about that admission made her feel exposed, vulnerable in a way she wasn’t used to. This wasn’t just some ploy, some strategic move—he wasn’t trying to manipulate her.
Tony Stark—who had a mind capable of building weapons, deconstructing governments, and surviving against impossible odds—had willingly chosen to revisit a book she had clung to for comfort as a child.
For no reason.
Her throat felt tight, so she did what she always did when things got too close. She smirked.
"Didn’t take you for the fairytale type, Stark."
Tony’s lips twitched. "Didn’t take you for the emotional type, Romanoff."
Natasha scoffed. "Please. If I were emotional, I’d be crying over how much of my life you’ve stolen trying to prove a point."
He placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense. "I would never waste your precious time."
She rolled her eyes, but the warmth lingered.
"And here I thought you only read blueprints and classified files," she mused, flipping the book shut.
Tony smirked. "Only the interesting ones."
There was a beat of silence, something unspoken between them, something neither of them was willing to name.
Then, Tony—forever the gentleman, despite the sharp edges of his personality—stood and extended a hand.
"Come on, Romanoff. Let’s get you some food and a drink before you start crying over all the sentimental crap."
She swatted his hand away, scoffing. "In your dreams, Stark."
He grinned. "Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea."
She snorted, shaking her head as she pushed past him. But for all her teasing, she couldn’t shake the way her chest felt just a little lighter.
Tony Stark had read her favorite book.
And for some reason, that meant more than she wanted to admit.