Chapter 4
The private jet began its descent, cutting through the overcast sky as the sprawling expanse of land stretched beneath them. Natasha’s sharp green eyes narrowed as she peered out the window, her mind racing through her mental catalog of airports and private runways in New York. This one wasn’t in her database.
"Stark…?" she questioned, suspicion lacing her tone. They were in the middle of nowhere, and she hated not knowing things.
Tony, seated across from her, didn’t even glance up as he casually buttoned his suit vest back up, smoothing the fabric before adjusting his cuffs. At some point during the flight, he had loosened up, tie abandoned completely, leaving his crisp white dress shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar. His dark eyes flicked up to meet hers, gold dust shimmering in the dim cabin lighting.
"Romanoff?" he responded with an almost lazy amusement, mirroring her tone.
Her fingers drummed against the armrest. "Where are we?" she asked, already shifting to analyze their surroundings with a practiced eye.
“Outside of Rochester, New York.” His voice was even, but there was something unreadable beneath it. “Oh? Didn’t know that? I assumed with your extensive research into my family’s assets, you’d have this on your radar. My father’s property—technically, mine now—is between Pultneyville and Sodus Point. Around 3,267 acres. Never been, but I hear it’s scenic. The original family that ran the farm side still lives there, far enough from the main house that they won’t bother us.”
Natasha’s gaze sharpened. He spoke about it like it was just another piece of Stark history, another footnote in his endless archive of knowledge. But something was off.
“You’ve never been there?” she pressed, watching him closely.
Tony exhaled through his nose, one corner of his mouth twitching as if suppressing a smirk. "I just explained that, didn’t I?" He leaned back into his seat, stretching out his long legs. "The place is a relic, no modern tech, no security worth mentioning, just a bunch of my dad’s old junk collecting dust.”
Natasha’s lips pressed together. "Your ability to mask emotions is concerning," she remarked, tilting her head slightly. "I honestly can’t tell if you’re putting up a front or if you genuinely don’t care about the emotional turmoil that should come with returning to a place tied to your family’s past."
Tony’s gold-flecked gaze met hers with an unreadable intensity. "For once, I’m not masking. I genuinely don’t care," he said, voice steady. "I was a newborn when they died. No memories, no nostalgia, just ghosts I never met." His fingers tapped against his knee absentmindedly. "When I grew cold to Captain America, it wasn’t about Barnes killing my parents. It was about Steve refusing to understand that we weren’t planning on locking him up and throwing away the key. But before Barnes could be trusted, the mind control had to be neutralized, or—"
"Or he wasn’t just a liability," Natasha finished, her voice quieter now, more thoughtful. "He was a threat."
Tony nodded once, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features before vanishing.
She exhaled through her nose. “I see your point of view now,” she admitted, a reluctant edge in her tone.
“Better late than never, sweetheart.” He pushed himself up smoothly, offering his hand to her. His touch was warm, steady. Natasha hesitated for a split second before taking it, letting him pull her up effortlessly.
She rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away. “You’re annoying.”
Tony grinned. “And yet, here you are, holding my hand.”
"Only because you offered it first."
"And you accepted," he countered, smug as ever.
With a scoff, she let go as they stepped off the jet, the crisp New York air hitting them as they descended the stairs. Tony, ever the gentleman, moved ahead to open the car door for her, his movements fluid and unhurried.
Natasha slid into the seat with a huff. "You really don’t have to do that."
Tony smirked as he shut the door behind her. "And yet, I do."
The hum of the car filled the space between them, neither speaking for the first half-hour as the vast countryside rolled past. The contrast between the two of them—Natasha, curled up in her seat in a slouchy red Nike hoodie, legs casually crossed, and Tony, effortlessly composed in his crisp white dress shirt, black slacks, and suit vest—was as stark as ever.
She watched him from the corner of her eye, one hand resting against the wheel, the other casually tapping against his thigh in a slow, rhythmic pattern. The arc reactor's faint glow pulsed through the fabric of his shirt like a heartbeat, a reminder of everything he had survived. Everything he refused to talk about.
Finally, Natasha broke the silence. "You sure you don’t want me to drive? You did technically die last week. Several times, actually."
Tony scoffed, not taking his eyes off the road. "Please, Romanoff. I die, I come back, I drive. It’s tradition at this point."
She smirked, shaking her head. "You're impossible."
"You say that like it's news."
Silence settled between them again, but this time it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence built from familiarity, from the unspoken understanding that neither of them needed to fill it just to keep the other entertained.
After another mile, she stretched, rolling her shoulders back against the seat. "How long until we get there?"
"Couple of hours. Give or take."
She hummed in response, gazing out the window. The landscape had shifted, from the city outskirts to vast stretches of open fields and dense tree lines. It was almost eerie how much space there was, how isolated it felt.
"Not gonna lie, Stark," she muttered, "I wasn't expecting this. You? In a place like this? Thought you'd stick to glass towers and artificial intelligence."
Tony smirked but kept his focus ahead. "What, you don’t think I can appreciate a little fresh air? I have layers, Romanoff. I’m like an onion. Or an expensive, highly sophisticated lasagna. Multi-dimensional."
She rolled her eyes. "Right. Because nothing says 'Tony Stark' like a 400-year-old mansion in the middle of nowhere."
His fingers flexed slightly against the steering wheel. "It was Howard’s first estate. When he first got some money before all the fame and money, before Stark Industries turned into an empire. He bought it before he had a name, before he had anything. It was supposed to be... I don’t know. A home."
Natasha studied him carefully. He wasn’t looking at her, wasn’t making one of his usual deflecting jokes. He was just driving, voice even, hands steady. But something in his tone made her pause.
"So why move there now?" she asked, quieter this time.
Tony inhaled through his nose, exhaling just as slowly. "Figured it was time to go somewhere that wasn’t trying to kill me."
She watched his profile, searching for more. But that was all he offered.
The rest of the drive passed in comfortable silence, with the occasional sarcastic remark thrown in whenever Tony found something to comment on—usually about her music taste, her posture, or how she managed to nap for twenty minutes without looking like a total gremlin.
When they finally turned off onto the private road leading to the estate, Natasha straightened in her seat. The thick canopy of trees parted, revealing glimpses of the property beyond.
And then, there it was.
The house loomed ahead, bathed in the soft glow of the late afternoon sun. It was massive—far more imposing than she had expected. A sprawling Italian-inspired mansion with its rustic stone walls, ivy creeping up the sides, and towering archways that spoke of centuries past. There were hints of English castle influence, the kind of structure that looked like it had seen wars, hosted royalty, and kept its secrets buried deep in hidden passageways.
"You’ve been holding out on me, Stark," she murmured, taking it all in.
Tony pulled the car to a stop in front of the grand entrance, engine purring to a halt. He glanced at her, an unreadable expression flickering in his gold-flecked eyes.
"Yeah," he said, voice softer than usual. "Guess I have."
She studied him for a moment before reaching for the door handle. "Come on, lasagna. Show me around."
Tony huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he stepped out of the car. "Remind me why I put up with you?"
Natasha smirked. "Because you like me."
"Debatable," he shot back, but there was no heat to it.
Now, as they stepped into the grand estate, the sheer size of it settled over Natasha like a weighted blanket.
Dust motes floated in the air, disturbed by the fresh intrusion, and every piece of furniture was concealed under thick white sheets, giving the house a ghostly, abandoned feel. The massive entryway was dimly lit by the weak afternoon light filtering through the tall, arched windows.
Natasha exhaled, crossing her arms as she looked around. “Huh. I’m shocked you didn’t hire a cleaner.”
Tony, standing beside her with his hands in his pockets, smirked. “And let some stranger touch my stuff? No thanks. I was actually planning on fixing it up myself.”
She scoffed immediately. “You? Fixing up a centuries-old mansion? What, with a screwdriver and a prayer?”
Tony gave her a sideways glance, lips twitching. “First of all, rude. Second of all, yes.”
She opened her mouth for another sharp remark, but then she saw his face—there was no sarcasm there, no bullshit bravado. He was serious. He actually wanted to restore this place. That realization made her pause.
“Wait, you’re actually serious?” she asked, eyebrow arching.
He gave her an exasperated look, then reached out and ripped one of the nearest white sheets off a chair, sending a cloud of dust flying. “Yeah, Romanoff. I can do things with my hands besides build weapons and look pretty.”
She snorted, walking over to another piece of furniture and yanking off the cover, revealing an old wooden desk beneath. “Debatable.”
“Careful, or I’ll make you help.”
She looked up at him, smirking. “I am helping. I’m providing moral support.”
Tony hummed, unimpressed. “Mmm. Convenient.”
They spent the next several minutes tearing the covers off the furniture, uncovering relics of a time long before either of them were born. The house had been frozen in time—everything was from a different era, untouched by modernity. As Natasha surveyed the room, she finally spoke.
“So, where am I staying?”
Tony wiped some dust off his hands onto his slacks. “You get one of the personal quarters—top floor, third door on the left. It’s got a bedroom, sitting room, bathroom, and a dressing room.”
“And you?”
He gestured down the hall. “Master quarters.”
She tilted her head. “Of course.”
Tony smirked. “Gotta keep an eye on you.”
She rolled her eyes but followed him as he started leading her through the rest of the house. The estate was a labyrinth of history, with every turn revealing something new.
When they entered the first library, Natasha felt her breath hitch slightly. Floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves housed thousands of books, their leather spines cracked with age. Some of them had clearly been there since the house was first built in the early 1600s.
Natasha ran a hand along one of the shelves, her fingertips grazing the books gently. “There’s nothing newer than 1979,” she observed, a small amount of awe leaking into her usually composed tone.
Tony leaned against the doorframe, watching her reaction with a satisfied expression. “Nope. Howard was a pain in the ass about technology, but he had good taste in books. And I heard my mother always had her nose in one. These are all originals.”
She pulled one off the shelf, opening it carefully. The pages were yellowed but intact. “I have to admit, this is…” She hesitated.
Tony raised an eyebrow. “What, cool?”
She gave him a look. “I was going to say unexpected.”
He chuckled. “I’ll take it.”
They moved on, exploring the different rooms, unveiling more and more of the house’s forgotten elegance. But when Tony led her to a particular room, he hesitated before opening the door.
“What’s in here?” she asked, intrigued.
Instead of answering, he pushed the doors open, revealing a grand, mirrored dance studio. The wood floors were slightly scuffed, the barre worn with time, and the mirrors a little dusty—but it was beautiful.
Natasha took a step inside, eyes scanning the space. “This…this is a ballet studio.”
Tony nodded. “Yup.”
She turned to him, confused. “Why are you showing me a ballet studio?”
He stuffed his hands in his pockets, glancing at the floor briefly before looking back up at her. “Because you told me about your lessons. On my birthday. Months ago.”
Her lips parted slightly, caught off guard. “You remembered that?”
He shrugged, as if it was nothing. “Yeah. Figured you might want a place to keep up with it.”
For a moment, she didn’t know what to say. Tony Stark wasn’t the kind of man who did things like this—at least, not the Tony Stark everyone else thought they knew. But the Tony she had come to know over the past year? Maybe it did make sense.
She stepped further inside, running a hand along the barre. “It needs some work,” she murmured.
Tony nodded. “I’ll fix it up for you.”
Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re actually serious.”
He smirked. “You say that like it’s surprising.”
She huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You don’t fix things, Stark.”
He crossed his arms, leaning against the doorway. “Maybe not people. But a dance studio? That I can do.”
Natasha glanced around the room again, and for the first time since they’d landed, a small flicker of excitement crept into her chest. She had spent so much of her life being uprooted, never having a real home. But this…this was nice.
She turned back to him, smirking. “Fine. But if you really want to fix this place up, you need some tech. The house is practically a time capsule.”
Tony groaned. “I knew this was coming.”
She gestured dramatically to the old chandeliers and outdated wiring. “No modern security system, no smart tech, not even a microwave, Tony. This place is prehistoric.”
He rolled his eyes. “I like the aesthetic, Romanoff. I’m preserving the house’s gems.”
She snorted. “That’s just a fancy way of saying you’re lazy.”
He pointed at her. “I am putting some emergency tech in my dad’s lab and garage—massive lab, by the way. And obviously I’ll keep an Iron Man suit in the house. But I’m not turning this place into a goddamn Stark Tower replica.”
She pretended to consider that. “Okay, but what about a projector? For movies?”
He gave her an incredulous look. “We live in a 400-year-old Italian-English Frankenstein mansion, and your biggest concern is a movie projector?”
She folded her arms, looking smug. “I have my priorities.”
He shook his head, exasperated. “Fine. One projector. Maybe.”
She smirked. “See? You can be reasonable.”
Tony sighed dramatically. “I regret everything.”
She just laughed, and for the first time since Siberia, Tony felt like maybe—just maybe—things weren’t completely ruined between them.
Tony guided Natasha through the vast estate, unveiling its hidden gems one by one. Every step they took echoed in the grand hallways, the wooden floors creaking slightly under their weight. He showed her the other small outdated but beautiful libraries and studies, their shelves lined with leather-bound books untouched for decades. The ballrooms, still carrying the whispers of long-forgotten parties, had chandeliers coated in dust but were still regal. The game rooms, with old poker tables and a billiard set, sat frozen in time, a reminder of when this house was alive with energy.
At every turn, Natasha found herself more captivated. Not just by the sheer grandeur of the house but by Tony himself. His knowledge of its history, the little details he shared about the architecture and secret rooms—it was clear he had spent time understanding this place despite never living here. It was a side of him she rarely got to see: not the Iron Man, not the genius billionaire, but a man who carried his past with silent reverence.
Finally, they circled back to the front room. A few remaining furniture pieces were still hidden under dusty sheets, untouched by time. With a small smirk, Tony strode to the last covered piece, gripping the fabric.
With one swift motion, he tore the sheet off, revealing a grand piano.
The deep mahogany instrument stood regal despite its wear, its surface scratched with age but still magnificent. Natasha tilted her head. “Seriously? You don’t seem like the piano-playing type.”
Tony ignored her, flipping the lid up and seating himself on the worn-out bench. His fingers hovered over the keys, pressing down experimentally. The sound that followed was harsh, discordant.
He winced. “Out of tune.”
“You don’t say.” Natasha crossed her arms, watching him with a mixture of amusement and curiosity.
Tony flexed his fingers before effortlessly gliding them over the keys, adjusting to the piano’s flaws as if they didn’t matter. Within seconds, the notes smoothed out into a melody—haunting, slow, but undeniably beautiful.
Natasha’s eyebrows lifted.
He played.
And he played well.
She hadn’t expected that. Not even a little.
Without thinking, she moved to sit beside him on the bench, her thigh brushing against his. As the music filled the empty space of the mansion, she hummed along instinctively, her voice soft, harmonizing with the notes.
Tony’s playing faltered for a second before he adjusted, matching her hum.
She tilted her head. “How come I never knew you played?”
His fingers never stopped moving, but his voice was quieter when he answered.
“You never asked.”
Natasha didn’t have a response for that. Because he was right. She had learned everything she could about Iron Man, about Anthony Edward Stark, but she had never once asked about Tony—about the person he was when no one was watching.
And that realization sat heavy in her chest.
Eventually, the melody faded into silence, and Tony pulled his hands back from the piano, stretching his fingers. “Alright, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”
Natasha rolled her eyes. “Great, because this place is stocked with… what? Expired canned goods from the ‘70s?”
“Possibly.” Tony stood, gesturing for her to follow. “Come on, let’s see what the kitchen has to offer.”
The kitchen was—predictably—outdated. The appliances were ancient, the fridge empty, and there was absolutely no sign of fresh food anywhere.
Natasha gave him a pointed look. “I’m assuming Uber Eats doesn’t deliver to ‘middle of nowhere upstate New York.’”
“Not unless we bribe them heavily.”
“Perfect.” She sighed. “So we starve.”
Tony held up a finger. “Not quite. Wait here.”
She narrowed her eyes but leaned against the counter, arms crossed as he disappeared down a hall. A few minutes later, he returned with a triumphant smirk, holding up two frozen pizzas, a bag of snacks, and an assortment of drinks.
She blinked. “Where the hell did you find those?”
“The trunk.”
“…The what?”
“The trunk.” He shrugged, placing the items on the counter. “I always keep emergency supplies in a high-quality, temperature-controlled storage unit, I also asked the driver who delivered the car to stock up. Also, just so happens to also be where I keep my alcohol stash.”
She huffed out a laugh. “Of course.”
Tony turned to the stove, examining it with an appreciative nod. “Good news—this baby’s a classic AGA Classic R7 160 63" Slide In Dual Fuel Range. Meaning, the gas lines should still be good.” He turned a knob, and sure enough, a small flame flickered to life.
Natasha stared at it. “You actually thought this far ahead?”
He shot her a look. “What do you take me for? I had the farmhand check the gas, water, and electricity before we got here. The last thing I need is to die from food poisoning in an abandoned mansion.”
She leaned against the counter, eyeing him. “Huh.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Just surprised.”
He pulled the pizzas out of the box, tossing one into the oven. “I’m full of surprises, Romanoff.”
She hummed, watching him move around the kitchen with a natural ease.
Then he casually added, “Although, I will say the mattresses in this place are about a century old, so sleeping tonight is gonna be like laying on rocks.”
She groaned. “Fantastic.”
Tony smirked. “Luckily, I have fresh sheets in the car. And a few other household necessities.” He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “Tomorrow, the custom beds I ordered arrive. Along with some other things.”
Natasha raised a brow. “Other things?”
“The day after that, all the stuff from Malibu gets here.”
She blinked.
He had really thought this all through.
For someone who claimed he never planned ahead, Tony had planned everything.
And she wasn’t sure why that unsettled her in a way she wasn’t ready to examine.
Instead, she rolled her eyes. “Well, I call dibs on the bed that doesn’t break my spine.”
“Already got your name on it.”
She looked at him. He wasn’t smirking, wasn’t teasing. Just saying it like it was obvious.
Like he had thought of her first.
And she didn’t quite know what to do with that.
~~
The pizza box sat between them on the marble floor of the grand ballroom, the dim lighting casting a warm glow over the aged paintings and intricate wall carvings surrounding them. The entire space was a testament to a time long past—ornate columns stretching toward the vaulted ceiling, chandeliers that had once held candles now fitted with dim electric bulbs, and murals depicting centuries of past family lineage, their faces frozen in time. The air smelled faintly of dust and aged wood, but it was comfortable, familiar in a way neither of them could quite place.
The ballroom was frozen in time. Grand chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, their golden glow barely piercing through the deep shadows that stretched across the polished marble floors. The air carried the faint scent of aged wood and candle wax, as if the room itself had absorbed centuries of whispered conversations and stolen glances.
The paintings along the walls depicted figures dressed in 17th-century finery, their eyes eerily lifelike, following Tony and Natasha as they stepped further inside. The couples, mid-dance, were forever captured in elaborate waltzes, the swish of their silk gowns and the sharp precision of their tailored coats painted with a level of detail so fine it felt as if they might step down from the canvas at any moment.
Natasha’s gaze flickered across the ballroom, her fingers brushing against the edge of a long-abandoned grand piano, its keys slightly yellowed with age. "This place is something else," she murmured, voice softened by the sheer weight of history pressing down on them.
Tony, standing a few feet away, tilted his head up, eyes tracing the intricate carvings along the ceiling. His hands rested in his pockets, his stance deceptively relaxed. "Yeah," he said, his voice carrying the ghost of something unreadable. "Howard bought it in the ‘30s. But it was built in the early 1600s like I told you."
Natasha's brows raised slightly as she turned toward him. "I thought you were kidding…1600s? Really?"
Tony nodded. "Some European aristocrat built it. There are tunnels underneath, some leading out of state, some going straight to Canada. This place has seen a lot of things." His gold-dusted eyes flicked toward one of the paintings, lingering on a woman caught mid-spin, her features eerily reminiscent of someone he couldn't quite place.
Natasha followed his gaze. "You ever wonder who they were? These people in the paintings?"
Tony exhaled softly. "Strangers, probably. But they lived, they danced, they left something behind." His tone was even, but something in it made Natasha glance at him for a moment longer.
She didn’t press. Instead, she let the silence settle between them, the weight of the past pressing against the present.
The scent of melted cheese and rich tomato sauce filled the vast ballroom as they sat on the cold marble floor, an open pizza box between them. The contrast between the casual meal and the grandeur of the space was almost ridiculous, but neither of them seemed to mind.
Natasha stretched her legs out, leaning back on her hands as she glanced up at the towering paintings, their ornate frames gleaming under the dim lighting. The carvings along the walls told stories she couldn’t quite decipher—floral motifs blending seamlessly with depictions of mythological creatures and battle scenes.
"You ever paint?" she asked suddenly, tearing her gaze away from the intricate details to glance at Tony.
Tony, who had been absentmindedly folding the crust of his pizza, stilled for a beat before shrugging. "Used to."
Natasha’s head tilted slightly, her curiosity piqued. "You? Really?"
His lips twitched, but there was no humor behind it. "I could copy anything. Exact details, shadows, lighting—perfect replication. But I never had the creativity to make something from nothing." He picked at a piece of pepperoni, his expression unreadable. "Lost interest after a while."
Natasha studied him, trying to picture it—Tony Stark, hands smudged with charcoal or paint, creating something only to feel it wasn’t enough.
After a moment, she looked away, returning her gaze to the carvings along the walls. "I never learned."
Tony’s head turned toward her. "You never painted?"
She shook her head, fingers tracing invisible shapes against the cool marble. "No one taught me."
A pause. Then, Tony’s voice, softer than before. "I could teach you."
A smirk ghosted across Natasha’s lips, her immediate instinct to throw out a snide remark, but something about the way he said it—calm, honest—made her hesitate. Instead, she glanced at him, searching his expression for any sign of teasing. There was none.
She exhaled, the corners of her mouth tugging upward ever so slightly. "Alright," she said, her voice quieter than before.
And then, after a beat—"Thank you."
Tony didn’t respond immediately, but the shift in the air between them was undeniable. A soft, unspoken understanding settling in as they sat there, surrounded by ghosts of the past, eating pizza on the ballroom floor.