Chapter 3
Third Person POV:
Tony and Natasha had settled into a delicate routine, a quiet dance of avoidance and care that neither of them acknowledged aloud. Each morning, Tony left an iced cold brew with fresh fruit or a steaming cup of dark roast French coffee accompanied by a meticulously prepared breakfast. He knew Natasha’s preferences by heart—her coffee strong and bitter, her fruit fresh and crisp. It became his ritual, a wordless gesture of understanding and, perhaps, forgiveness.
Yet, despite his efforts, they hadn’t spoken since that biting conversation over coffee three weeks prior. The tension between them hung like a thin veil, palpable but never touched. Tony told himself he was being hospitable, that he wasn’t leaving offerings to appease the goddess of war and secrets residing under his roof.
The truth was, Natasha’s presence gnawed at him. She haunted the compound like a ghost—barely seen, never heard. He would catch glimpses of her through the security feeds as he checked them more often than necessary, justifying his actions as safety protocols. But really, he just wanted to see her. He craved the sight of her, even if only through a screen. She was always in motion—her body a deadly machine in the gym, a lithe shadow as she ran along the private beach, or a statue of stillness when she sat in the garden, knees drawn to her chest, staring into nothingness. Her new look—platinum blonde, shaggy layers barely brushing her shoulders, curtain bangs framing her face with a few wispy strands caressing her forehead—was a constant reminder that she was a different person now. Different but still the same woman who had carved her way into his guarded heart.
His thoughts spiraled late at night, in the hours when the world outside was quiet and his mind was anything but. He imagined what her hair would feel like if he ran his fingers through it, if those strands would slip through his grasp like water or if they’d catch, tangled by their shared history. He thought about the curve of her body, how it had looked that day in the kitchen—toned and soft, the tight crop top leaving nothing to his imagination. The baggy sweats did nothing to hide the sway of her hips, the strength in her thighs. He hated how he noticed. He hated how he couldn’t stop. He hated how she was everywhere, even when she wasn’t.
Finally, his compulsiveness got the best of him. “Friday, what exactly does Miss Widow do all day?” Tony asked, trying to sound casual as he tightened a bolt under the hood of his vintage Mustang. His voice echoed in the dim light of his lab-garage, where he’d holed himself up for weeks, avoiding the rest of the compound, avoiding her.
“Well, she gets up around 2:30 to 4 a.m. at the latest and immediately takes a run on your private beach,” Friday responded, her voice smooth and unbothered. “Once she finishes, she engages in an intense workout regimen before transitioning to a high-level training course. Afterward, she meditates for one to three hours, depending on external variables. Then, Miss Widow reads for a while. More often than not, she lies in bed, staring at the wall, or immerses herself in research. She frequently watches documentaries on wildlife or educational docuseries.”
Tony’s hands stilled. He could picture it—her sitting on the bed, knees pulled up, head resting against the wall as she lost herself in stories of animals and history, of anything but reality. “Is she okay?”
“Currently, she is experiencing a nightmare, as she does every night. It seems the episode is approaching its climax.”
Tony rolled out from under the car, a smudge of grease on his cheek, his hands filthy. “Nightmare?”
“Yes, it often manifests as a night terror. She is in a state of intense cold sweat and is physically thrashing. Sometimes she screams one of the super soldiers' names, but when she wakes, she often whispers yours as she cries.”
He barely registered the rest of Friday’s report. His feet moved before his mind caught up, his hands fumbling to scrub the grease off in the small sink, dark water swirling down the drain. His chest tightened with each step toward her room. He hated her, didn’t he? He should. But the thought of her suffering twisted something deep inside him, something raw and vulnerable.
The hallway seemed longer than usual, each footfall echoing in the silence of the compound. He should turn back. She didn’t want him. She’d betrayed him. But he kept walking, drawn to her like a moth to flame, even if it meant he’d burn.
Tony’s footsteps were nearly silent as he approached Natasha’s door, but he knew better than to expect stealth to save him. The Black Widow didn’t just sleep—she laid traps, even in the sanctuary of her own nightmares. His pulse pounded in his ears, every instinct telling him to turn around, to leave her in the dark. But he couldn’t. Not when she was suffering, not when every soft whimper of his name broke him down like rust on iron.
He twisted the knob slowly, the door giving a soft click as it opened. The room was shrouded in shadows, the blue glow of the television painting the walls with the illusion of a tranquil forest. Birds chirped, leaves rustled, but beneath it, Tony could hear the hitch of Natasha’s breathing—the sharp, uneven gasps of someone drowning in their sleep.
“Nat?” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.
In an instant, Natasha was a whirlwind of deadly intent. The bedside lamp crashed to the floor, shards scattering like shrapnel. Before he could react, she was on her feet, her silhouette a phantom in the dim light. The barrel of a gun gleamed, steady and aimed directly at his chest.
“Whoa, hey!” Tony’s hands shot up, his palms open and unthreatening. His heart slammed against his ribs, but he forced his voice to stay even. “Natasha, it’s me. It’s Tony.”
Her eyes were wide, unfocused, pupils blown and dark. Sweat plastered her blonde hair to her forehead, strands sticking to her clammy skin. She looked through him, as if he were nothing but a shadow among shadows.
“Put it down,” he said, softer this time. “You’re safe. No one’s here but me.”
She didn’t move. Her finger tightened on the trigger, the soft click sending a shiver down his spine. Her breathing was shallow, erratic, like a cornered animal. Tony could see the war waging behind her eyes—the line between reality and nightmare thin as razor wire.
“Natasha,” he tried again, his tone gentle but edged with steel. “I know you’re scared. I know it feels real. But you’re not there. You’re here. With me.”
A tremor ran through her, the gun shaking in her grip. She blinked, once, twice, as if the room was slowly bleeding into focus. Her lips moved, soundless, forming his name over and over like a prayer.
“There you go,” he coaxed, his voice slipping into that rare, tender timbre he barely recognized as his own. “It’s just me. Just Tony. I know you want to shoot me sometimes, but maybe not tonight, yeah?”
Her shoulders sagged, the weight of his words breaking through the fog. The gun clattered to the floor, and the sound seemed to echo endlessly. Natasha’s knees buckled, and she sank onto the edge of the bed, her hands trembling as they pressed into the mattress.
Tony exhaled, his chest tight as if he hadn’t breathed in minutes. His hands dropped slowly, but he didn’t dare move. Not yet. He needed to see her, to truly see her. Her head hung low, blonde strands hiding her face, but he could hear the ragged sobs tearing from her throat.
He swallowed hard. He wasn’t supposed to care this much. She was the traitor, the one who had turned her back on him when he needed her most. She’d chosen Rogers, chosen the side that had left him beaten and broken on the cold metal of a Siberian floor. He was supposed to hate her. But right now, all he felt was the sharp, twisting pain of seeing her like this—lost, vulnerable, human.
A single tear slipped down his cheek, hot and unwelcome. He wiped it away quickly, smearing a trace of grease across his skin. His breath hitched, and he clenched his jaw, willing himself to keep it together. She needed him, and he wouldn’t fall apart. Not now.
With a cautious slowness, he took a step forward. The floorboard creaked, and she flinched, her body recoiling as if expecting a blow. Tony’s heart shattered, the pieces grinding against each other with every beat.
“I’m gonna sit, okay?” he said, his voice so soft it almost wasn’t there. “Just sitting. Nothing else.”
She didn’t respond, but she didn’t bolt either. He took that as a win. His movements were deliberate, every shift of his weight measured as he eased himself onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and for a moment, neither of them moved.
He stared at his hands, fingers stained with grease and trembling ever so slightly. His mind raced with a million things he could say, every apology, every accusation, every confession. But the words stuck in his throat, tangled up in his own fear and shame.
Silence stretched between them, fragile and taut. He could feel her beside him, every shallow breath, every shiver. He wanted to reach out, to touch her, to prove to her—and maybe to himself—that she was real. That they were both still here.
“Tony…” Her voice was raw, broken.
He closed his eyes, another tear slipping free. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
He bit the inside of his cheek, tasting copper. “Yeah. Me too.”
And they sat there, two broken souls in the dark, teetering on the edge of something neither of them had the words for.
Silence filled the room, settling like dust on old memories. Tony sat at the edge of the bed, his large frame hunched over, hands clasped tightly between his knees. His fingers bore the dark stains of grease, diesel, and oil, black smudges etched into the pale skin beneath his nails. The sharp scent of metal and machinery clung to him, mingling with the faint salt of his tears.
His black and gray AC/DC shirt, worn thin with age, was smudged and speckled with oil, the long black sleeves beneath frayed at the cuffs. His black Carhartts were no better—ripped, stained, and threadbare, mirroring the state of the man who wore them. Tony Stark, billionaire, genius, Iron Man, looked nothing like the polished hero the world believed him to be. He looked raw, unfiltered, like a wound struggling to scab over.
Natasha sat beside him, her legs curled beneath her. The black silk of her tank top and shorts caught the dim light, a soft sheen against the darkness of the room. Her blonde hair hung in messy layers around her face, still damp with sweat, her breathing slowly evening out. She was the picture of fragility and strength, a blade wrapped in velvet.
Tony’s voice finally cut through the quiet, low and rough around the edges. “Do you… want to talk about it?”
Her head snapped up, eyes still glassy but sharper now. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she shook her head, a quick, jerky movement. “No.”
The word was a wall. Stark knew walls. Hell, he lived behind them—walls of sarcasm, of genius, of alcohol, of iron and titanium. He could see hers, too. But this wall felt different, less constructed and more instinctual. A barrier between now and whatever hell her subconscious had dragged her into.
“Okay.” He nodded, his fingers digging into his palms hard enough to leave half-moon indents. He wanted to push, to pry those walls apart, but he bit his tongue. He’d been on the other side too many times to not recognize the need for space.
But his demons were already whispering, winding their fingers around his thoughts. Siberia. Cold. Metal. Blood. He’d been left on that mountain, broken and bleeding, his armor shattered, his pride gutted. And Natasha—Natasha had chosen Rogers. Chosen Barnes. Chosen the man who had killed his parents with winter in his veins and murder in his eyes.
“Is it…” He hesitated, the words clawing their way out. “Is it about what happened? About… Siberia?”
Her jaw tightened, a muscle feathering beneath her skin. She didn’t look at him, instead focusing on the chipped edge of the nightstand, her fingers tracing invisible patterns against the silk of her shorts.
“No.”
“Natasha.” His voice came out sharper than he intended, the name a knife slipping from its sheath. She flinched, and guilt twisted his gut. He forced himself to soften, to dull his edges. “I’m not gonna overreact. Just… talk to me. Please.”
She breathed in slowly, her chest rising and falling with a practiced control that only made the distance between them feel wider. When she finally spoke, her voice was a threadbare whisper, barely holding together.
“You’d get mad.”
“Try me.”
Her lips pressed together, a flicker of something—fear, shame, doubt—crossing her face. “I’m not ready.”
Tony’s stomach tightened, the unease coiling in his chest. He wanted to ask a thousand things, every question fighting to be first. His mind was a maze, every path leading back to betrayal. To Siberia. To the cold ache of being left behind.
“Did you… Did you betray me again?” His voice cracked, the vulnerability slipping through before he could catch it.
Her head snapped up, eyes wide and wounded. “No.” The word came fast, too fast, the desperation sharpening each syllable. “No. Tony, I’d never—I wouldn’t—”
He couldn’t breathe. His throat felt tight, the air thick and heavy. “Because last time, I thought the same thing. I thought we were—” He broke off, his tongue leaden in his mouth. “You ran, Nat. You left me there.”
Her hands twisted in the silk of her tank top, knuckles white. “I know. God, I know.”
“You chose him.”
Her expression crumpled, a rare, fleeting glimpse of raw emotion. “I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought… I thought I was stopping something worse.”
His laugh was hollow, a ghost of a sound. “Yeah, well, it sure felt like the worst.”
Silence stretched between them, thin and brittle. Tony’s fingers traced the edge of the mattress, a nervous, unconscious movement. He felt small, despite his towering height, despite the broad set of his shoulders. He felt like the kid Hydra had tried to break, the boy who learned to build walls instead of bonds.
Natasha’s voice broke through, fragile and cracked. “I’d die before I did that to you again.”
The words hung between them, heavy and dangerous. Tony’s breath shuddered out, a wet, broken sound. He hated how much he wanted to believe her. How much he wanted to close the space between them and drown in the softness he so rarely allowed himself to feel.
But Siberia was a wound that hadn’t healed. It throbbed beneath his skin, a reminder that trust was a razor, and he’d been cut too deep.
“I don’t know if I can believe that.” His confession was a whisper, slipping through the cracks of his armor.
She looked at him then, truly looked at him. Her blue-green eyes were storm-tossed, shadows clinging to the edges. “I know. I deserve that.”
He turned away, his shoulders slumping under the weight of too many emotions. His hand found the cool metal of the bedframe, the sensation grounding him. “Just… promise me, Nat. Promise me you’re not going to disappear again.”
Her lips parted, a breath catching on the cusp of a promise. She reached out, her fingers brushing against his arm, the touch light and hesitant. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
The truth of it lingered in the space between them, fragile and uncertain. And for the first time in a long while, Tony let himself hope—just a little—that maybe, just maybe, they could find a way back from the cold.
Tony’s breath steadied as the silence wrapped around them, heavy yet oddly comforting. He hadn’t meant for things to go this far, to be this close. Vulnerability had never sat well with him, and Natasha’s presence made the walls he’d built feel like paper. Still, there was no turning back now—not with the haunted look in her eyes or the way his own chest still ached with unspoken words.
He cleared his throat, breaking the quiet. “You should get some sleep.”
Her brows knitted together, the faintest furrow creasing her forehead. “And what about you?”
“I’ll be fine.” Tony forced a crooked smile, his go-to mask for uneasy truths. “I’ll just crash on the floor. Maybe steal one of your pillows and that blanket.” He nodded toward the knitted throw draped over the armchair in the corner.
Natasha shook her head, stubbornness brimming in the tired slump of her shoulders. “Take the bed, Tony. I’m fine.”
“Nope.” His voice was firm, a rare steel beneath his usual sarcasm. “Not happening. You need the bed, and I’m not moving.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, a storm of protest brewing behind her gaze. “This is ridiculous.”
Tony merely shrugged, already leaning over to retrieve the gun she had thrown. The cool metal glinted under the dim lights, and his fingers moved with practiced ease. Piece by piece, he dismantled the weapon, separating the slide, barrel, and spring with deft precision. He set each part on the nightstand, a quiet offering of safety. “Just in case,” he murmured.
Her eyes softened, the gesture not lost on her. Tony had always been good at the little things—the quiet acts of kindness that spoke louder than words.
Satisfied, he moved to the foot of her king-sized bed, lowering himself to the floor with a grunt. His body ached from too many nights spent curled up on the lab couch or hunched over in front of blueprints. Still, he shifted around, finding a somewhat comfortable position against the hardwood floor.
He sat up just long enough to pull off his AC/DC shirt, the fabric peeling away with a quiet rasp. Beneath, his skin was a canvas of pale scars, lean muscle, and faint smudges of oil. His black long-sleeve followed, exposing the broad, hard lines of his chest. His skin was pale, almost sickly, stretched over the sharp ridges of his collarbone and the faint trace of ribs. He kicked off his boots, fingers nimble despite the exhaustion settling in, and then unbuttoned his worn black Carhartts. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he shimmied out of them, leaving him in nothing but a pair of loose red and blue plaid boxers.
Natasha’s gaze dipped, a flicker of movement that she quickly masked. But Tony saw it—of course, he did. He noticed everything, every shift in the air, every unspoken word. He made no comment, pretending not to see the way her cheeks flushed or how her breathing hitched for just a second.
Inside, a small, selfish part of him was glad. It was an ember of warmth in the cold space between them.
“Sorry for sitting on your bed all greasy.” He smirked, settling down with the stolen pillow tucked under his head and the throw blanket draped over his broad shoulders. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not about to sleep covered in oil.”
Natasha’s lips quirked up, just a bit. “You could still take the bed.”
“Not a chance.” His voice was muffled, half-buried in the pillow. “I’m a gentleman, remember?”
A huff of breath, almost a laugh. “Sure, Stark.”
The room fell quiet again, but this time the silence was different—softer, like the lull of an ocean tide. Tony closed his eyes, the steady rhythm of Natasha’s breathing a strange kind of comfort. His back pressed against the foot of the bed, the cool wood floor grounding him, anchoring him in the moment.
And for the first time in what felt like years, Tony Stark found solace. The grizzly bear skin rug beneath him was surprisingly soft, its coarse fur a strange comfort against his skin. He had bought it as a joke a few years back at a Moscow auction, a playful jab at Natasha’s roots. Back then, she had rolled her eyes, lips curving in a begrudging smirk as he draped it over her shoulders, declaring her the "Queen of the Russian Wilderness." Now, the irony of him lying on it, half-naked and clinging to a worn pillow, wasn’t lost on him.
The gentle hum of the documentary had faded into a white noise lullaby, the kind that smoothed the sharp edges of his thoughts. His mind, usually a cacophony of guilt and worry, had quieted. The rise and fall of Natasha’s breathing, the subtle warmth of her presence, all threaded into a fragile quilt of comfort. He let himself sink into it, the world slipping away as his body finally gave in to the exhaustion.
But sleep for Tony Stark was never an escape. It was an uneasy drift on dark waters, the shadows of Siberia still clinging to his subconscious. Even as his breathing deepened, the sting of betrayal lingered. She had left him—left him to die in the cold, surrounded by metal and ghosts. She had chosen Steve Rogers, chosen Bucky Barnes. Chosen the man who had killed his parents, leaving Tony a shattered orphan long before he was ever Iron Man.
Still, beneath all the jagged memories, there was a soft undercurrent. The truth he refused to admit, even to himself. He cared. God, did he care.
Natasha lay tangled in her sheets, the silk clinging to her skin, a sheen of cold sweat marking the aftermath of her nightmare. She stared at the ceiling, the dim glow of Tony’s arc reactor casting ghostly patterns on the walls. It pulsed gently, a beacon in the dark—a reminder that, against all odds, he was still there.
She didn’t deserve it.
Didn’t deserve him.
The weight of her choices pressed down on her chest, a phantom chokehold. Bucky’s voice echoed in her mind, venomous, from their time in Wakanda. His words had twisted through her, the truth seeping into her bones like a slow-acting poison. He destroyed her in more ways then anyone will ever realize.
Her fingers clutched the sheets, nails digging into the silk. She had believed in Steve, in redemption, in the idea that Bucky could be more than the Winter Soldier. But at what cost? She had left Tony to die, left him to fend off his demons alone. And now, here he was—sprawled on the cold floor, looking more like a corpse than the genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist the world knew.
A shift of the blanket pulled her from her spiral. She sat up, the mattress creaking softly beneath her. Tony didn’t stir. His face was turned away, strands of dark hair messy against his forehead, the pillow swallowing half his features. His breathing was slow, even. Asleep.
She slid to the edge of the bed, her movements cautious, as if afraid to break the moment. Leaning over, she took him in—the throw blanket barely covering his hips and upper thighs. The rest of him lay exposed to the cool air, muscles taut, skin marred with grease and oil smudges. His long limbs stretched out, the king-size bed dwarfing even his 6’6 frame.
Her gaze lingered, drawn to the gentle glow of his arc reactor. The soft blue light bathed his chest, highlighting the dips and shadows of his collarbones, the hollow planes beneath his ribs. He was still muscular, but the sharpness of his bones was unsettling. His skin, once a healthy bronze, had turned pale, nearly translucent under the dim light. His body told the story of neglect—of missed meals, of too many sleepless nights.
Natasha’s chest tightened, a quiet ache settling between her ribs. She couldn’t stand to see him like this. Not when she was the reason behind it.
Carefully, she unfolded her own fuzzy black blanket—the one Tony had brought back from Norway after a mission gone sideways. He had gifted it to her with a smirk, calling it “the softest thing for the deadliest woman.” Now, she draped it over him, the fabric pooling around his long legs and barely reaching his shoulders.
She hesitated, fingers brushing against the worn edges of the blanket. Her instincts screamed at her to retreat, to pull back and rebuild the walls. But Tony had already torn them down, just by being there, just by caring when he shouldn’t.
With a quiet exhale, Natasha grabbed one of her pillows. She lowered herself to the foot of the bed, curling up above where Tony lay on the rug. Her head rested on the edge, mere inches from where his chest rose and fell. She switched off the documentary, plunging the room into darkness save for the arc reactor’s soft glow.
Her eyes traced the slow rhythm of his breathing, a metronome against the chaos in her mind. The room was quiet, the world outside forgotten. She let the darkness cradle her, let the soft hum of the arc reactor lull her into something close to peace.
A tear slipped free, sliding down her cheek and vanishing into the pillow. It wasn’t much—but it was real.
And as sleep finally took her, Natasha held onto the only truth she knew: If redemption existed, it started here—at the edge of this bed, in the dim blue light, with Tony Stark lying just within reach.
Tony stirred beneath the thin blankets, the coarse rug digging into his back through his skin. His mind floated somewhere between sleep and consciousness, the soft hum of his arc reactor the only sound in the room. He hadn’t truly been asleep—more like drifting in and out, caught in the current of his own thoughts. When Natasha had moved, sitting up with that familiar, silent grace, his senses had prickled awake.
He had kept his breathing steady, an old habit from his days of escaping board meetings and avoiding Pepper’s lectures. His eyelids had remained heavy, only the barest sliver of his dark eyes peeking through his lashes. The room was bathed in the soft, cool blue of his arc reactor, shadows stretching across the walls like delicate ink strokes.
He had seen her then—how she leaned over the edge of the bed, the blanket slipping from her shoulders. The way her fingers brushed the worn, faded fabric of the throw blanket draped over him. Her expression had been soft, a fragile thing that he hadn’t seen in years, if ever.
A part of him had wanted to reach out, to pull her from whatever dark place she had been wandering. But Tony Stark had never been good at showing he cared. Not directly, anyway. So he had let her be, let her watch him with those glassy green eyes, let her tuck him in as if he were something worth keeping safe.
But now, as the room fell back into stillness, Tony let his guard down. His eyes fluttered open, just enough to see the delicate curve of Natasha’s face as she lay above him on the bed. Her knees were tucked to her chest, her hand resting against the edge of the mattress, fingers splayed as if reaching for him even in sleep.
He shifted, slowly, carefully, every movement measured. His hand, still warm from the blanket, reached up to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. The soft strands slipped through his fingers, featherlight and warm. Her blonde hair framed her face in a messy halo, the short, shaggy layers and curtain bangs casting delicate shadows across her closed eyelids. She looked so small, so breakable—nothing like the Black Widow the world feared.
Tony’s thumb traced the curve of her cheek, barely a whisper of a touch. His hand found hers, his calloused fingers lacing through her own. Her skin was cool, her grip loose and trusting even in sleep. He held her hand gently, his palm cradling the back of her hand, thumb brushing slow circles against her knuckles.
A soft, bittersweet smile tugged at his lips. She was here. She had stayed. And despite everything—despite Siberia, despite Rogers, despite Barnes—she was still within reach.
He let his head fall back against the pillow, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. His lips parted, the words slipping out before he could stop them, a soft whisper swallowed by the dark.
“I’m sorry.”
It was a confession to the shadows, to the ghosts that lingered in the corners of the room. It was an apology for all the ways he had failed her, for all the times he had pushed her away when he should have pulled her close.
The weight of it settled over him, a warm, heavy blanket that pressed him deeper into the rug. His body relaxed, the last of his tension unwinding as sleep finally claimed him. His hand remained wrapped around hers, their fingers intertwined in a quiet promise neither of them was ready to speak aloud.
In the soft glow of the arc reactor, two souls found a fragile peace—one wrapped in the cool embrace of silk sheets, the other nestled against the worn fur of an old bear skin rug. And in the silence, only the sound of their breathing remained, a duet of broken pieces slowly finding their way back together.