Chapter 8
The mansion was silent, save for the occasional creak of its ancient bones as the wind whispered through the trees outside. The weight of history lingered in the air, a presence that neither of them spoke of but both felt.
It was 2:30 AM when Natasha stirred from her restless sleep. The unfamiliar comfort of the Stark estate still hadn’t settled into her bones, and something gnawed at the edges of her consciousness, an unease that she couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t a dream, nor was it a lingering remnant of her past keeping her awake—it was something much simpler. Tony.
She knew he rarely slept. In the thirteen and a half months she had known him, she had never seen him rest properly, not once. At most, he would doze off for an hour or two, but it was never peaceful. His body ran on sheer willpower, an inexhaustible machine that refused to surrender, even to something as basic as sleep. And after months of relentless work restoring the estate, pushing himself to exhaustion day after day, she knew the likelihood of him actually getting any rest was slim to none.
Without thinking, Natasha swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her bare feet making no sound against the cool wooden floor. She didn’t bother grabbing a robe, dressed in nothing but a silk tank top and a matching pair of shorts. The air was crisp against her skin as she moved, but she ignored it, slipping silently out of her room and into the dimly lit hallway.
Tony’s room was directly above hers. She knew that because she had memorized the layout of the house within the first few days of being here—every hallway, every hidden passage, every possible exit. It was instinct, second nature. Yet, as she reached his door, she hesitated for the briefest of moments before pushing it open just enough to peer inside.
The room was empty.
Frowning, she let her gaze sweep across the dim space, her sharp eyes adjusting to the shadows cast by the moonlight filtering through the curtains. The bed was untouched, the sheets undisturbed. He hadn’t even attempted to sleep.
“Tony?” she called softly into the darkness, her voice barely above a whisper.
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, a voice—rough, low, laced with exhaustion but unmistakably his.
“Romanoff?”
Her head turned toward the terrace, where the doors were cracked open just enough to let the night air seep in.
Without hesitation, she stepped inside and made her way toward the doors, pushing them open fully. The cold air brushed against her skin, but she ignored it, her focus narrowing on the lone figure sitting on the ground against the railing, his back partially turned to her.
Tony Stark—Iron Man, the genius billionaire, the man who had survived more than anyone ever should—looked utterly drained. His legs were stretched out in front of him, one bent at the knee, an empty glass resting beside him. He wasn’t drinking, though. The bottle on the table next to him was still full, untouched. Instead, he was simply sitting there, staring at something unseen, lost in thoughts that ran too deep for even him to drown in.
She stepped closer, crossing the threshold onto the terrace. “Are you okay?” He asked
Tony shifted at the sound of her voice, moving to stand, but she caught the way his muscles tensed, as if he hadn’t expected company.
“Yeah, I’m okay—”
“Don’t lie,” he cut her off immediately, his voice sharp but not unkind.
She sighed, crossing her arms. “I’m just tired, but I’m okay, alright? I actually came to check on you.”
That caught his attention. His brows lifted slightly, amusement flickering behind his tired eyes. “On me?”
“Yes, on the insomniac zombie,” she clarified, her tone dry.
Tony huffed a soft laugh, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Oh, I’m really okay—”
“When was the last time you slept more than four hours consecutively without being sedated?” she interrupted, her arms tightening over her chest as she gave him a pointed look.
He blinked, as if genuinely considering the question. “I don’t know. Toddler age? My sleep cycles are two hours long, so I have difficulty doing more than one cycle in a row. Once I wake up, I usually can’t fall asleep again.”
“Why?”
“I’m an insomniac with clinical mental issues, and, well, I also happen to be an absolute genius,” he said, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “My mind never stops. It’s constantly running on infinite possibilities and equations, always working.”
Natasha studied him, searching his face for something he wasn’t saying. “What about when it’s not working?”
Tony hesitated, then exhaled slowly. “I don’t want to lie to you, Romanoff.”
“Then don’t.”
He tilted his head, lips pressing into a thin line before finally speaking. “I don’t dream. Ever. But I do have night terrors. Not nightmares—night terrors. Most of the time, I don’t have them anymore because I can’t even hit that deep of sleep. But when I do, it’s... bad. My body reacts on instinct, survival mode. I wake up in a panic, and—”
“Your mind doesn’t let you sleep because when you do, you go through neurological and physiological torture, resulting in physical damage,” she finished for him, her voice quiet but firm.
Tony’s eyes flickered with something unreadable before he nodded. “Exactly. And when you mix that with chronic insomnia, you get a lovely cocktail.” He flashed a grin, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Natasha was silent for a moment, her gaze unwavering. Then, she asked, “What about when you sleep with someone?”
Tony arched a brow. “Like sex?”
She rolled her eyes. “No, more intimate. Just company.”
The smirk faded, replaced with something far more serious. “I wouldn’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve never been in bed with someone when it wasn’t for sex.”
Natasha frowned. “Didn’t you and Pepper date?”
Tony exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “What did I tell you on my birthday last year?”
“That you never liked her.” She hesitated, her voice laced with sarcasm. “I just assumed you played her.”
“No. She’s a good friend, but I’ve never played her. And I’ve never actually been in a relationship.” He glanced at her then, something vulnerable flickering in his expression before he looked away. “Honestly, the only personal dinner I’ve ever been on was when you let me take you out on my birthday last year.”
Natasha’s brows knit together. “I didn’t know that.”
Tony shrugged. “Not exactly something I advertise.” He smirked, shifting the mood again. “And not that this year’s birthday wasn’t great, but last year’s was the best I ever had. Still, though, your baking skills were on par.”
She snorted. “Thank you. But I honestly thought, with you being a playboy, that you would’ve at least played a few girls into dating you. Or cheated on someone.”
Tony leaned back against the railing, shaking his head. “Never been in a relationship, so I’ve never cheated. And yeah, I’ve played people emotionally, but never for personal gain.” His voice was calm, but there was something behind his words that she couldn’t quite place.
For a long moment, they sat there in silence, the night air wrapping around them, the weight of unspoken words settling between them. Then, finally, Natasha sighed and sat down beside him, mirroring his position against the railing.
“Tony,” Natasha murmured, her voice soft, almost hesitant.
He glanced at her, his dark eyes catching the dim light, the gold dust in them flickering like dying embers. “Romanoff,” he responded, his tone equally quiet, reverent in a way he rarely allowed himself to be.
She exhaled slowly, shifting her weight slightly. “Can I take care of you?” The words were cautious, deliberate, as if she were testing the ground beneath her feet before stepping forward.
A low chuckle escaped him, dry and touched with amusement. “For tonight? Try to coax me into sleeping? Sing me a lullaby?” His lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but wasn’t entirely devoid of warmth either. “I mean, I do love your absolutely angelic, stunningly gorgeous, beautiful voice—but I don’t think even that’s enough to drag me into unconsciousness.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t take the bait. “No, genius. I mean, let me take care of you for… forever, I guess? I don’t have a better timeline in mind than that.” Her voice softened toward the end, vulnerability laced through her usual dry sarcasm. “And for someone with an intellect off the charts, you really suck at reading between the lines.”
His smirk faded slightly, a flicker of something unspoken passing through his expression before he let out a quiet breath. “I knew what you meant,” he admitted. “I just wanted to give you a way out if you regretted saying it.”
Her brows furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line. “I’m not taking the out, Stark.”
His fingers tapped lightly against the glass of water he’d picked up from his nightstand. “It’s okay,” he said, shrugging. “I don’t want to burden you with my—”
“Problems?” She cut in, arching a brow. “You take care of me all the time, Stark. And don’t even try to tell me it’s ‘different.’ It’s not.” She crossed her arms, tilting her head in that way that made it clear she wasn’t about to back down.
A beat of silence passed, then another. He exhaled through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Mmm. Okay.”
“‘Okay’ just like that?” She narrowed her eyes at him.
He shrugged again, the movement slow, deliberate. “Yeah. I don’t deserve it, but it would be nice. And let’s be honest—if I said no, you’d do it anyway. So I might as well embrace the inevitable.”
A small smirk ghosted over her lips as she pushed herself up from the ground. “Good. Let’s go to bed.”
He groaned quietly as he stood, his body protesting the movement after hours of being tense. “Bed?” His voice was half amused, half exhausted.
“How grateful of you,” she quipped, throwing him a smirk over her shoulder. “Yeah. Let’s see if your body feels safer with another person around.” She didn’t phrase it like a question because she already knew the answer.
Tony hesitated for a fraction of a second before following her into his room. It was a calculated pause, one she might have missed if she hadn’t spent the last thirteen months learning to read between his carefully placed defenses.
She crawled into his Alaskan king-sized bed, settling into the plush covers as if she’d done this a hundred times before. He hesitated by the edge of the bed before pulling the covers back on the other side and sliding in, his movements uncharacteristically careful.
“I can sleep on the floor or the couch in the lounge if that’d be more comfortable for you,” he offered, reaching for the glass of water again, taking a slow sip as he waited for her answer.
“No,” she said simply, adjusting the pillow beneath her head. “Let’s sleep like this. It’s comfortable this way.” She paused, then added, “But you have to promise me you won’t leave the bed unless it’s to go to the bathroom—at least until after the sun is up.”
There was something unspoken in her words, something deeper than just keeping him in bed. He recognized it, processed it, then nodded. “I promise,” he murmured.
She watched him for a moment before offering a small, satisfied nod. “Goodnight, Stark.” Her voice was softer now, less teasing, more genuine.
“Night, Romanoff,” he replied, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment before turning his head slightly toward her. His voice dropped to something nearly inaudible. “Sweet dreams.”
Tony’s head rested lightly against the pillow, his dark lashes casting faint shadows over his sharp cheekbones as he stared at the ceiling. His body remained tense despite the warmth of the blankets, muscles coiled, ever-ready for action even in the most intimate of settings. Sleep never came easy, and he doubted tonight would be any different, no matter how much he wanted to believe otherwise.
Beside him, Natasha shifted, turning on her side to face him. The mattress dipped slightly under her weight, a whisper of movement that he cataloged instinctively. Even in the dark, he knew she was watching him, those sharp green eyes piercing through the quiet.
“You’re not sleeping,” she murmured.
“Observation skills like that will get you far, Romanoff,” he quipped, voice laced with quiet amusement.
She huffed but didn’t take the bait. Instead, she reached out, fingertips grazing over the fabric of his shirt, barely touching his skin beneath. A silent reassurance. A reminder that she was there.
Tony swallowed, unsure how to respond to the warmth coiling in his chest. It was foreign, this kind of comfort. He had never been the one being taken care of—never had the luxury of resting without constantly keeping one eye open. He had spent his life balancing between calculated deception and brutal survival, always staying one step ahead because falling behind meant death. But this—this was different.
“You could try,” Natasha suggested, her voice softer now, less teasing. “Just this once.”
He turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze in the dim light filtering through the curtains. A smirk tugged at his lips, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve had people tell me to get some sleep before, but none of them ever offered to keep me company while I did it.”
“I’m not ‘people,’” she shot back smoothly.
“No, you’re not,” he admitted, his voice dropping to something more serious. Something real. “That’s why I’m still here.”
Natasha held his gaze, something unspoken passing between them. A silent acknowledgment of the walls neither of them had fully let down, the barriers they had built out of necessity. And yet, despite it all, they were here—sharing the same bed, wrapped in a fragile truce of understanding.
“Good,” she murmured, shifting closer just slightly. “Because you’re not getting rid of me.”
Tony chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Silence stretched between them, but for once, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It wasn’t the heavy, suffocating quiet that usually accompanied his sleepless nights. Instead, it was… easy.
“Goodnight, Tony. go to sleep,” she whispered.
He exhaled, his body finally relaxing just a fraction as he let his eyes drift shut.
“Night night, Romanoff. Sweet dreams,” he murmured.