Chapter 4
Third Person POV:
It had been four weeks since Tony Stark had first woken Natasha Romanoff from the clutches of a nightmare, and in those weeks, a fragile routine had settled over them. Every night, without fail, Friday would alert Tony whenever Natasha’s dreams turned dark. And every night, Tony would find himself at the foot of her bed, cradled by the soft fur of the old bear skin rug, his fingers loosely woven through hers. The cold hardwood floor had become his haven, a place where he could be close to her without overstepping, without forcing more words than they were ready to share.
Natasha had tried to protest, of course. She had sat up, hair tangled and eyes rimmed with shadows, and told him to take the bed. She had insisted, voice sharp and unyielding, but Tony had only ever responded with that stubborn, boyish smirk. "Floor’s fine," he would say, pulling a pillow under his head and yanking the throw blanket over his legs. She had given up eventually, letting him have his way, though every night he would wake to find himself tucked in more carefully than he’d fallen asleep. A spare blanket over his chest, a pillow cradling his head, and the softest whisper of her scent lingering in the fabric.
Their mornings had transformed into a silent dance. Natasha would return from her run, skin flushed and hair damp with sweat, only to find Tony waiting in the weight room. He never asked to join—never assumed—but every day, she would nod once, a small tilt of her head, and he would follow. Their training sessions began with weights and ended with sparring, the padded mats underfoot muffling the sounds of fists and feet. Tony was sharper than she’d imagined, his strikes calculated, his defense impenetrable. He moved with a grace she hadn’t expected, a mixture of street brawler and trained martial artist, and with each match, her respect for him deepened.
They rarely spoke, their voices saved for the bite of sarcasm or the murmur of comfort when darkness crawled into the room at night. Their conversations were a patchwork of dry humor and midnight confessions, neither ready to address the raw wound between them—the betrayal in Siberia, the frostbitten mountain where Tony had been left to die. Where she had left him. She couldn’t bring herself to say it, and he couldn’t bring himself to ask. So instead, they built their routines like barricades, keeping the truth at bay.
Their days unfolded in parallel lines. After breakfast, they would drift apart—Tony to his lab, surrounded by the hum of technology, Natasha to the quiet of the library or the cold metal of the gym. And yet, no matter how far they wandered, they always found their way back to each other at two in the morning. It was unspoken, a gravitational pull neither wanted to resist.
But tonight, something was different. Tony had been gone all day, ensnared by SHIELD meetings and Fury’s relentless demands. He had come home expecting the silence of an empty house, the quiet of an empty bed. Instead, he found Natasha slumped on the corner of the L-shaped couch, one leg draped over the coffee table, a glass of whiskey balanced precariously between her fingers. Her heels were still on, sharp black stilettos that dug into the worn wood.
“Natasha,” he said, his voice rough with exhaustion. He let his suit jacket fall to the ground, not caring as the expensive fabric crumpled against the marble floor. His shoes followed, kicked off with a carelessness that only came with being home. His white button-up was wrinkled, sleeves already rolled to his elbows, exposing the veins and scars of his forearms. He moved into the living room, a shadow against the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the windows.
“Stark,” she groaned, the word dragging from her lips as if it weighed too much to carry. There was a slur to her voice, not drunk but close, teetering on the edge of something raw and dangerous. She didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the amber liquid swirling in her glass.
Tony’s expression tightened, a flicker of something vulnerable passing over his features before his mask slipped back into place. He slid onto the couch beside her, the leather groaning under his weight. His presence filled the room, a wall of heat and steel, but he stayed just far enough away to give her space. His fingers fidgeted against his thigh, tapping out a rhythm only he could hear.
“Rough night?” he asked, his tone light, but the question sat heavy between them.
She huffed, the sound brittle. “Something like that.”
Silence wrapped around them, thick and suffocating. Tony stared at the glass in her hand, at the way her fingers clenched the crystal like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. His mind raced, a hundred questions tangled together, but he bit his tongue. He had learned not to push—not with her.
When she finally spoke, her voice was a rasp against the edge of the glass. “I needed… space.”
Tony’s lips curled into a smirk, but there was no humor behind it. “Well, you certainly found it. Between the whiskey and the thousand-yard stare, I’d say you’re halfway to the moon.”
Her head turned, green eyes narrowing at him. “Not in the mood, Stark.”
“Yeah, I’m getting that.” He leaned back, his arm draping over the back of the couch, the casual sprawl of his body a sharp contrast to the tension winding through his veins. His arc reactor pulsed gently through his shirt, a steady blue heartbeat. “What happened?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she tilted the glass, letting the whiskey slide over her tongue, burning a path down her throat. She winced, but the pain was a welcome distraction.
Tony watched her, the weight of unspoken words pressing against his chest. His fingers tightened around the edge of the couch, knuckles white. “You know,” he said softly, “I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight.”
Her breath hitched, a tremor she couldn’t hide. She set the glass down, the soft clink echoing in the quiet room. “You should,” she whispered. “You should go.”
“Not a chance.” His voice was steel, unyielding. “Not until I know you’re okay.”
Natasha’s lips parted, a thousand lies perched on the tip of her tongue. But none of them came out. Instead, she pressed her palms to her eyes, hiding from him, from the world. “I’m not,” she admitted, the words muffled but true.
And Tony, who had faced gods and monsters, felt his heart break. He didn’t move, didn’t reach out—not yet—but his presence was a promise. He was here, and he would not leave. Not again.
Tony moved slowly, his fingers brushing against the cool crystal glass still clutched in Natasha’s hand. He didn’t rush her, letting her fingers loosen around the glass before he gently pulled it away, the lingering warmth of her skin still ghosting over the crystal. He set it down on the coffee table beside the nearly empty bottle of bourbon, the soft clink of glass against wood the only sound in the room. The amber liquid sloshed gently, reflecting the dim glow of the arc reactor beneath Tony’s shirt.
He shifted, lowering himself to his knees in front of her, each movement deliberate and unhurried. His suit pants strained against his thighs, the fabric creasing as he sank down until he was level with her feet. Natasha’s brows knitted together, her lips parting as confusion cut through the haze of whiskey and exhaustion.
“What the hell are you doing?” she asked, her voice low and sharp, a blade glinting in the dimness.
Tony’s expression remained soft, his dark eyes warm despite the harsh shadows painting his features. He didn’t answer right away, his hands resting lightly on his own knees, a careful distance from her. He looked at her feet, still encased in the delicate black heels, the straps winding around her calves like silk bindings.
He had made vows to himself once—vows that had shaped his life and the walls he built around his heart. He had promised he’d never get on his knees for anyone. He’d vowed never to accept anything that was handed to him, his pride a fortress that allowed no gifts, no charity. He never shook hands, not unless he had to, the touch of another a discomfort he rarely tolerated. And yet, here he was, on his knees before her, his pride a distant memory as he surrendered to the quiet pull of her pain.
He inched closer, his knees brushing against the edge of the rug, the coarse fur bristling against the bare skin where his pants had ridden up. His hands finally moved, fingers ghosting over the delicate laces of her heels. “Nat,” he murmured, his voice a soft hum. “Let me.”
She shifted, her leg twitching as if to pull away, but she stayed still, her knuckles pale against the glass she had taken back. “I’m fine,” she bit out, her tone brittle, a mask of indifference cracking at the edges.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Tony’s lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe you are,” he conceded, his fingers already working the laces, “but even if you’re desensitized to the pain, it doesn’t mean it’s not there.” His touch was practiced, each movement deft and precise as he unthreaded the ties from around her calves. The pads of his fingers skimmed her skin, a warmth that seemed to seep into the chilled, pale flesh beneath.
The first heel slipped off, the leather and silk folding into his palm. He set her foot into his lap with a care that bordered on reverence before moving to the other. Natasha’s breath hitched, barely audible, but Tony heard it. He didn’t comment, didn’t let the moment stretch too thin. The second heel joined the first in his lap, and he shifted, the subtle clink of the stiletto against his belt buckle breaking the silence.
Without a word, he reached for the glass again, downing the last sip of bourbon, the burn of it sharp against his tongue. He set the glass aside, his movements fluid as he poured her another measure. His hands didn’t shake, his focus absolute as he passed it back to her, their fingers brushing in the exchange. She accepted it, her hand steady, but her expression gave her away—something in the guarded look, the way her lips pressed together, as if trapping words she couldn’t bear to say.
Tony leaned back against the coffee table, the wood pressing into his spine, grounding him. His legs stretched out before him, knees bent as he reached for her feet. His touch was light at first, fingers wrapping around her ankles, his thumbs tracing slow circles into her skin. He moved up, his hands gliding over her arches, the dip and curve of her foot fitting perfectly against his palm.
His hands were an odd mix of strength and gentleness. The calluses on his fingers spoke of metal and machines, of late nights in the lab, but his skin was soft, the result of expensive lotions and a meticulous care that bordered on vanity. He kneaded the muscle, coaxing out the tightness with firm, deliberate pressure, each stroke unhurried.
Natasha’s eyes fluttered, the glass resting against her lips as she took another sip, the amber liquid barely touching her tongue. She watched him, her expression caught between suspicion and surrender. His hands moved to her calves, working into the muscle, the intimacy of the gesture nearly suffocating in its silence.
Tony didn’t speak, didn’t dare break whatever fragile peace had settled over them. Acts of service had always been his language—the only way he truly knew how to show he cared. Words failed him, tangled up in his throat, but his hands… they could say what his mouth could not. They could offer comfort, strength, and an apology all at once.
His fingers traced the curve of her ankle, up to her shin, the motions rhythmic, almost hypnotic. Natasha’s breathing evened out, the tension slowly unwinding from her body. She hadn’t realized how tight her muscles had been until his touch unraveled the knots beneath her skin. Her grip on the glass loosened, her arm draping over the edge of the couch, the bourbon sloshing gently in its crystal prison.
Tony’s hands moved with a steady rhythm, his thumbs pressing into the tight muscles of Natasha’s calves while his other hand cradled her foot on a plush pillow he’d pulled from the couch. The pillow was dark green, velvet soft, and it sat on his lap, cushioning her foot as if she were something precious. His fingers curled beneath her ankle, lifting her leg just enough to angle it comfortably, his touch a perfect balance of strength and tenderness.
He worked in slow, deliberate motions, kneading the tension away, and with every pass, he felt the rigidness of her body, giving way to a softness she rarely let show. His hands moved in slow circles, coaxing out knots with a practiced ease. Tony had always been good with his hands, whether building weapons or offering comfort. Where his words often stumbled, his hands spoke fluently, saying what he couldn’t quite put into syllables.
As he finished with her calves, he didn’t pull away. Instead, his touch shifted, becoming light and absentminded. His fingers traced small shapes against her skin—soft circles, gentle lines—just above her ankle and slowly up toward her knee. It was a soothing gesture, intimate in its simplicity. He wasn’t trying to arouse, wasn’t teasing with any ulterior motive. This was Tony Stark, stripped of all bravado, offering a quiet kind of care that even he wasn’t sure he knew how to give.
His fingertips glided along the curve of her shin, the pads of his fingers warm against the coolness of her skin. He drew abstract patterns, the shapes lost to the dim light and the quiet hum of the arc reactor glowing softly beneath his shirt. The blue light cast gentle shadows, a heartbeat in the dark, a reminder that he was still here, still alive, still trying.
Natasha let out a long, slow breath, the sound like a whispered secret in the silence between them. She had closed her eyes at some point, her head resting against the back of the couch, blonde strands of hair falling messily over her forehead. She looked softer this way, less like the Black Widow and more like just Natasha—someone who had been hurt, someone who was still healing.
The silence wrapped around them, a comfortable blanket of unspoken understanding. Tony didn’t need her to talk, and Natasha didn’t need to fill the quiet with apologies or explanations. His hands moved up, his thumbs brushing just below her knees, his touch still careful, still reverent. He let his hands rest there, his fingers loosely draped over the curve of her legs, grounding them both.
Her voice broke through the stillness, quiet but clear, a note that rang through the room. “You’re good at this.”
A corner of Tony’s mouth twitched, a smirk trying to break through the solemnity of the moment. “Yeah?” he murmured, his voice warm, gravelly from the long day and the longer night. “I had to learn a few tricks. You know, just in case the whole genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist thing didn’t work out.”
Natasha’s lips curved into a ghost of a smile. It wasn’t forced, wasn’t a mask. It was real, small but real. “Playboy, huh?” she said, her tone edged with a dry humor that felt like a glimpse of the old her. “This how you seduce all your dates, Stark? Foot rubs and whiskey?”
He huffed a soft laugh, his thumbs brushing over her skin. “You got me,” he said, feigning surrender. “Usually, by this point, I’d be three terrible pickup lines deep, and you’d be either rolling your eyes or throwing me out.”
She let out a soft sound, not quite a laugh but close. “You must be off your game, then.”
Tony’s expression softened, his smirk fading into something gentler. “Maybe,” he said, his hands still moving, still offering comfort without demand. “Or maybe I’m finally on it.”
Natasha’s eyes opened slowly, those green irises sharp even under the weight of exhaustion. She looked at him, really looked, and Tony felt the weight of her gaze, the way it pulled at the frayed edges of him. She wasn’t looking at Iron Man. She wasn’t looking at a hero or a billionaire or a mess of a man. She was just looking at him, and it was both terrifying and calming all at once.
Her free hand—the one not holding the glass—drifted down to her side, resting against the couch cushions. Her fingers twitched, as if wanting to reach for him, but they stilled, curling into the fabric instead. She didn’t push him away, but she didn’t pull him closer either. She let him stay, let him touch, let him be there in the quiet.
Tony’s hands moved with a steady rhythm, his thumbs pressing into the muscles just above Natasha’s knees. His touch was gentle yet firm, offering a blend of comfort and purpose. Her feet rested delicately in his lap, cradled by the soft pillow beneath them, and the weight of her legs felt grounding—like an anchor holding him steady in the quiet of the dimly lit room.
But the silence stretched, thin and fragile, and Tony’s mind began to unravel beneath it. His hands slowed, his fingers flexing lightly against her skin as he drew in a breath. The words caught in his throat, thick and uncomfortable, but he forced them out anyway, his voice low and rough.
“I’ve never done this before.” His admission hung in the air, raw and unpolished. “Not just… this.” His hands stilled, resting against the warm skin of her knees. “I mean, anything like this. Sitting with someone. Helping them. Touching them… like this.”
He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly beneath the faint glow of the arc reactor. His thumbs grazed over her kneecaps, a soft, nervous gesture. “I’m not—God, I’m not good at this kind of thing. And I need you to tell me if I’m crossing a line, Natasha. If you’re just… letting me do this because you said I could use you.”
His voice broke on the last word, the vulnerability cracking through the practiced facade he usually wore so well. His eyes remained fixed on his hands, unable to look up at her, afraid of what he might see—fear, discomfort, indifference.
Natasha’s heart gave a quiet lurch, her chest tightening as his words settled over her. She had seen Tony Stark in every possible light—brash, arrogant, broken, brilliant—but this was new. This uncertainty, this raw, unfiltered need for reassurance. It stirred something in her, something soft and dangerous, something she wasn’t sure she had the strength to acknowledge.
Her instinct was to tease him, to lighten the moment with a joke or a quip, but the look on his face—the quiet tremor of his hands—made her swallow the instinct down. Instead, she let the silence hold for a moment longer, let it breathe between them, until her voice found its way through.
“This is okay, Tony.” She spoke slowly, deliberately, as if each word needed to find its place before being released. “You’re not crossing a line. And I’m not just… letting you do this.”
Her hands moved, one of them settling over his where it rested on her knee. Her fingers wrapped around his, small and calloused, but steady. “It’s really nice,” she added, her voice soft, barely more than a whisper. “And I’m thankful.”
Her thumb brushed over his knuckles, a quiet, grounding motion. “No one’s ever really done this for me before.”
Tony’s eyes finally lifted, and the weight of his gaze sent a shiver through her. His brown eyes were dark and searching, layered with exhaustion and hope and something else—something fragile and yearning. His lips parted, as if to say something, but no words came. Instead, his hand tightened around hers, his thumb grazing over her skin with a careful reverence.
Natasha’s breath came in slow, steady draws, but beneath the surface, a storm raged. She wished—God, how she wished—she had the courage to say more. To tell him that this was something she wanted to last. That his touch, his presence, the way he saw her without all the armor and the masks—it felt like something she could hold onto. Something she could call home.
But the words tangled in her throat, caught up in the fear and the guilt and the weight of everything she had done. She couldn’t bring herself to ask for more, not when she had already taken so much. So instead, she leaned into the moment, letting his hands work their gentle magic, letting the warmth of his touch seep into her bones.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and the arc reactor’s soft blue glow painted shadows over her face. It was the only light in the room now, a quiet, pulsing reminder of his heart—of everything he was giving her without saying a word.
Tony’s hands began to move again, his fingers pressing gently into the muscles just above her knees. His touch remained careful, deliberate, as if he were afraid of breaking her or breaking the moment. But there was a rhythm to it now, a certainty that hadn’t been there before, and Natasha found herself melting into it, letting the tension bleed away beneath his touch.
The whiskey glass sat forgotten on the table, the amber liquid catching the blue hue of Tony’s arc reactor. The world outside the windows was dark, but in this room, beneath the blanket of quiet, there was a warmth—a promise unspoken, a thread of something neither of them dared to name.
And as Tony’s hands continued their gentle path, as his fingers traced soft shapes against her skin, Natasha let herself drift, her heart beating in time with the soft hum of his reactor.
This was okay.
This was more than okay.
And maybe, someday, she would find the words to tell him just how much.