Chapter 9
The morning sun slipped through the sheer curtains, casting soft, golden fingers over the room. Natasha stirred, the coolness of the sheets brushing against her skin, coaxing her from sleep. She lay in the massive expanse of Tony’s Alaskan king-sized bed, the mattress swallowing her in comfort, but something felt off. Her lashes fluttered, a quiet groan escaping as she rolled over, the oversized MIT hoodie slipping off one shoulder. Her fingers grazed the vacant pillow beside her, cool to the touch—too cool. She blinked, disoriented, and then her gaze settled on Tony’s back, his silhouette against the dim light filtering through the windows. His bare skin was taut, muscles bunched beneath his skin as if bracing against an invisible blow. The blankets pooled around his waist, his shoulders broad and bare, the sharp lines of his back etched in shadows.
Natasha shifted closer, her movements slow and careful, her instincts flaring with the recognition of something fragile. Her arm slipped over his waist, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the cool sheets. She settled her hands against his abs, her fingers splaying over the hard ridges of muscle, and slid lower, the tips brushing against the dip of his v-line. She pressed her chest against his back, nestling into the curve of his spine, her nose buried in the faint scent of his cologne mixed with the remnants of yesterday’s salt air. His body remained rigid, a coiled spring beneath her touch, but exhaustion clung to her, and she let the steady rhythm of his breathing pull her back under.
Hours slipped away in the haze of sleep, and when she woke again, it was to the sensation of him moving. His muscles shifted beneath her palms, his body pulling away as if reluctant yet determined. She tightened her hold, a soft whine slipping free as she sought to tether him to her, but his warmth slipped through her fingers. The bed dipped as he moved, and she half-opened her eyes, watching through a tangle of dark strands as he sat at the edge of the bed. At first, she thought he was simply going to the bathroom, but as the minutes stretched and he didn’t move, a knot began to twist in her chest.
“Tony?” Her voice was rough with sleep, a whisper that hung in the quiet room. No response. His back remained to her, shoulders hunched, head bowed. She pushed herself up, propping her weight on one arm as she tried again, the syllables of his name brushing the silence. Still, nothing. Her brows furrowed, a small crease forming between them as the quiet gnawed at her nerves. She moved, slipping from beneath the blankets, the cool air raising goosebumps on her skin as she sat behind him, her legs crossed beneath her.
Her hand pressed against his back, her palm a gentle weight over the tension knotted beneath his skin. The heat of his body radiated against her touch, but he remained unmoving, a statue carved from bone and sorrow. She swallowed, her thumb brushing slow circles over the dip between his shoulder blades, and leaned forward, her cheek nearly brushing the curve of his spine. “Tony.” Her voice was firmer, coaxing, but still, he didn’t respond.
Her fingers trailed up, slipping over the curve of his shoulder, and with a gentle but insistent nudge, she urged him to look at her. When his head finally turned, the sight of him stole the breath from her lungs. His eyes, usually bright with mischief and warmth, were rimmed in red, lashes clumped with unshed tears. His cheeks bore the faint trails of where silent tears had slipped free, and his lips, usually quick with a smirk or a quip, were pressed into a thin, trembling line. His face was a battlefield, raw and unguarded, and the pain etched into every line shattered something deep within her.
Natasha’s expression softened, the sharp edges of her features blunted by concern. Her thumb swept over the dampness on his cheek, brushing away the remnants of his silent grief. “Hey,” she whispered, her voice a tender murmur as if too loud a sound might shatter him completely. Her other hand remained on his back, the slow, rhythmic motion of her fingers a grounding touch. “What’s going on?” She didn’t push, didn’t demand. She simply offered, her presence a quiet promise of safety.
His lips parted, but no sound came. His breath trembled, his shoulders rising and falling with a barely-there shudder. His gaze drifted, unfocused, and the silence that stretched between them felt thick and heavy, like smoke in her lungs. Her mind raced, a thousand possibilities colliding, each one more unsettling than the last. She shifted, moving closer until her knees pressed against his thigh, and then she did the only thing she could think of—she pulled him into her arms.
Tony went without resistance, his body folding against hers. She cradled him to her chest, her arms strong and steady as they wrapped around him. One hand slid into his hair, her nails grazing his scalp in slow, gentle strokes, while the other remained against his back, pressing him close. He buried his face against her, the warmth of his breath seeping through the thin material of her hoodie. His fingers curled into the fabric at her sides, gripping tightly as if afraid she might slip away.
“Was it a nightmare?” she asked softly, her lips brushing against his temple. He shook his head, the movement small and almost childlike. Her heart clenched, worry threading through her veins. “Did I do something?” Again, he shook his head, a quiet denial that only deepened the mystery. She paused, her breath a soft exhale against his skin. “What happened, Tony?”
His shoulders drew in tighter, his body curling in on itself even as he remained pressed against her. A beat of silence. Then another. And then, slowly, he sat back, pulling away just enough to meet her gaze. His hands remained on her hips, the contact an anchor in the storm raging within him. His lips parted, his voice a raw scrape of sound. “It’s my fault.”
Her brows pulled together, confusion and a spark of fear tightening in her chest. “What did you do?” The question slipped out, instinctive and urgent, her mind conjuring a dozen scenarios—each darker than the last. She searched his face, looking for clues, for cracks in his mask, but all she saw was the depth of his anguish, raw and unfiltered.
Tony’s throat worked, a thick swallow that did nothing to ease the tightness constricting his voice. “I didn’t do anything,” he whispered, the words brittle. “It’s what I didn’t do that’s fucked up.”
Natasha remained still, her hand a warm, steady weight against Tony’s back. The tension beneath her palm was a live wire, humming with an energy that buzzed against her skin. She didn’t push, didn’t rush to fill the silence with words that might break whatever fragile hold he had on his emotions. Instead, she exhaled slowly, her breath soft and measured, and let the silence speak for her. “I’m here,” she whispered, her voice a gentle tether in the storm. “It’s okay. You can take your time.”
Tony’s chest shuddered with a breath he couldn’t seem to steady, his broad shoulders rising and falling beneath the weight of invisible burdens. His lips pressed into a thin line, the muscles in his jaw flexing as he turned his face away, a few more tears slipping free. Natasha’s hand moved, her fingers brushing against his cheek, catching the damp trails as if she could erase the evidence of his grief. She shifted, guiding his face back to her, her thumb sweeping over his cheekbone in soft, languid strokes.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, the words spilling from him in a rush. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to be secretive—I just… I fucked up.” His voice cracked, the edges frayed and raw. “You deserve better than this, better than me. You should be with someone who isn’t so—so fucking damaged.” His fingers tangled in the sheets, twisting the fabric as if he could anchor himself through the motion. “I never deserved you, Natasha. I never will. And this… This is so fucked up. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
The weight of his words pressed into her, sharp and jagged, and for a moment, Natasha found herself at a loss. The room seemed smaller, the air heavier, as if the walls had drawn closer. She swallowed, the movement slow and deliberate, and let the silence stretch, giving his confessions the space they needed to breathe. “It can’t be that bad,” she said finally, her voice soft but steady. “I care about you, Tony. I’m here. Whenever you’re ready.”
Tony’s breath hitched, a sound caught between a sob and a sigh. His hands released the sheets, fingers trembling as he dragged them through his hair, pulling at the strands as if the sting might ground him. His eyes darted to the window, the sunlight too bright against the shadows beneath his skin. “I’ve been lying to you,” he admitted, his voice a brittle whisper. “Not directly. Not… Not in words. But by omission. The entire time you’ve known me.”
Natasha’s brows knitted together, confusion rippling through her. “Lying?” She repeated the word, tasting it, testing it. “What do you mean?”
Tony’s lips parted, the truth trembling on the edge, and then the dam broke. “My childhood—it’s not what you think. I’m not who you think I am.” His words came fast, a rush of syllables that tumbled over each other, desperate and unchecked. “I know what my file says. I know the story everyone thinks they know. But it’s all a lie. I’m a lie.”
Her pulse quickened, the rhythmic thud of her heart an echo in her ears. She shook her head slowly, her mind racing to catch up. “It can’t be that bad. You don’t know everything about my past, either. We only know what’s in our files and what we’ve chosen to share.” She tried to find his gaze, but he remained turned away, his profile a sharp silhouette against the pale morning light.
“My file is all a lie.” The admission hung between them, a thread pulled taut.
“What do you mean?” The question slipped out, soft but pointed, the sharpness of a blade hidden beneath velvet.
Tony’s hands fell to his lap, his fingers twitching against his thighs. He drew in a breath, held it, and then released it in a shudder. “I’m an ex-HYDRA agent.” The words fell heavy, each syllable a stone in the quiet. “I was raised by HYDRA—from the day I was born until I was nineteen.”
The world seemed to tilt, the floor shifting beneath Natasha as if the ground itself had become unsteady. Her breath caught, her lungs forgetting the rhythm, and for a moment, all she could do was stare. “You’re serious.” It wasn’t a question, but a fractured statement, a desperate reach for clarity.
“Yes.” His voice was small, the strength bled from him, leaving only the bones of truth behind. His head dropped, his shoulders curving inward, and the sight of him so vulnerable, so utterly broken, splintered something within her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never wanted to lie to you. I never wanted to keep this from you.”
He began to unravel, the words spilling free in a flood of apologies. “You can leave if you want. I’ll help you. I’ll keep you safe, keep you undercover. I’ll never get in your way. I swear I’ve never lied about anything else. I’m still me. I’m still Tony. I’m just—” His voice cracked, a raw, jagged sound. “I’m just more broken than you think. I didn’t want you to see this. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
Natasha’s mind raced, the pieces of the puzzle scattering and realigning. The timelines, the scars she’d traced with her fingers, the way he moved in a fight—fluid, lethal, instinctual. His unnerving ability to lie without a hitch, to deflect with charm and wit. His confidence, the way he held a room’s attention while never truly letting anyone in. The inconsistencies in his file, the gaps in his history, the careful omission of family ties. His fighting style, honed in a way that felt too precise, too conditioned. His nightmares, the way he woke with a start, drenched in sweat, his breath ragged and thin.
And then there were the smaller things, the moments that had once seemed innocuous but now shimmered with new meaning. The way his hands sometimes trembled when he thought no one was looking. The precision with which he could break down a weapon, his fingers moving with a speed that spoke of muscle memory rather than training. The detached way he handled threats, as if violence was not a last resort but a first instinct. The way he never spoke of a childhood beyond the carefully curated stories—the ones that felt rehearsed, polished to a shine.
The moments between his confessions and her response stretched like pulled taffy, sticky and uncomfortable, binding them in a web of unspoken fears and fragile hope. Tony’s breath came in quick, uneven bursts, his chest heaving beneath the weight of the truth he had finally set free. His hands twisted together, knuckles pale, a testament to the anxiety thrumming beneath his skin.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, the words a litany, a mantra he couldn’t stop repeating. “I’ll do anything to make this right. Anything. I can—I can set up a Swedish bank account for you, help you disappear if you need to. I’ll handle all of it. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I’ll be an open book from now on, I promise. I’ll never lie to you again. Never.” His voice pitched higher, frayed at the edges. “I know it’s not fair. I know I fucked up. I should’ve told you sooner. I should’ve—”
“Okay.”
The single word sliced through his rambling, sharp and clean. Tony’s mouth snapped shut, his lips still parted mid-apology. His brows drew together, confusion flickering over his features. “O-okay?” His voice wavered, the syllable soft and unsure. “I can, uh—I can still help you. With whatever you need. I mean, if you need to go, I’ll—”
“Tony.” Natasha’s voice remained gentle, but a thread of steel wove through it. “I’m not leaving. I’m processing. Just—hold on.”
“Oh.” His breath rushed out in a shuddering exhale. He blinked, and a fresh wave of tears slipped down his cheeks. “Okay. Okay. I just—I’m sorry.”
Her fingers pressed against his lips, halting his words. The touch was soft but firm, a reminder to breathe, to listen. Tony’s lips moved beneath her finger, a muted syllable of apology swallowed before it could take shape.
“I get it,” she said. “It’s a lot to process. And, yeah, I’m a little hurt that it took you this long to tell me, but I also know how hard it is to talk about the past. I’ve got things I haven’t told anyone, either. Things that aren’t in my file. It wouldn’t be fair to hold this against you.”
Tony’s lips trembled beneath her touch, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from speaking.
She drew her hand away, but only far enough to let her thumb brush the corner of his mouth. “And honestly? This explains a lot. I had questions, you know? About the timelines, the scars, your fighting style. The way you could lie so seamlessly, deflect without missing a beat. Your file never quite fit. There were gaps, pieces that never made sense.” She offered him a small, wry smile. “It’s kind of nice to finally have an answer.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Tony.” Her voice was softer now, a breath against his skin. “It would be hypocritical of me to judge you. I was in the Red Room. I know what it’s like to be trained to be something you never wanted to be. The difference is I told you that from the beginning.”
He winced, the truth of it carving sharp lines into his expression.
“But I understand why you didn’t.” Her thumb traced the curve of his cheek, grounding him. “It’s a lot. But I’m a quick processor, and I’m not going anywhere. I care about you. More than anything from your past could ever change.”
His face crumpled, a fresh wave of tears breaking through. “I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll never hide anything from you again. I’ll be an open book. Whatever you want, whenever you need. Even if—if you don’t want this anymore. If you just want to be friends. I’ll take it. I’ll take anything. I just—” His voice cracked, thin and desperate.
A soft laugh escaped her, surprising him into silence. His brow furrowed, the confusion widening his eyes, and Natasha shook her head, amusement curling at the corners of her lips.
“Tony, I don’t think I’d ever choose to be just friends with you.” She leaned closer, her forehead brushing against his. “Unless that’s what you want?”
His head shook, small and quick, his hair brushing against her skin. “No. No, that’s not—no. You’re the thing I want most in the entire multiverse. But I don’t deserve you.”
A soft hum vibrated against his lips, Natasha’s breath a warm caress. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing. That I don’t deserve you.”
His head snapped back, the denial already spilling from his lips. “No. No way. You’re—you’re perfect. You’re incredible. I mean, you’re smart, and strong, and you make me feel like—like maybe I could be worth something. And you’re beautiful, Nat. I mean, have you seen yourself?”
A chuckle slipped from her, rich and genuine, and Tony’s chest fluttered with the sound. She pulled him into her chest, her arms wrapping around him, fingers threading through his hair. “I don’t deserve you, Tony. And yet, here we are. I’d like to keep doing this, if you want to.”
“Yes.” The word rushed from him, fervent and immediate. “Yes, I want to. God, why wouldn’t I want to? You’re—you’re everything. You’re everything good, and smart, and brave, and beautiful, and—”
Natasha’s laugh rumbled beneath his cheek, where his face was pressed against her chest. Her fingers moved through his hair, slow and soothing, and she felt the shiver of his breath against her skin. “If you ever lie to me again, Stark, you’re in deep trouble. But I’m not going anywhere.”
“I won’t,” he promised, the words muffled as he burrowed deeper into her chest. His arms wound around her, pulling them back onto the bed, their bodies tangling in the sheets. “I swear. No more lies.”
Her laugh vibrated through him, a warmth that settled into his bones. “You’re really attached, huh?”
A muffled sound slipped from him, a mix of a groan and a whine, his face pressing deeper against her chest. “You have no idea,” he mumbled, the words muffled by the soft curve of her skin.
“Comfortable down there?”
“Mmhm.” His arms tightened around her, his legs tangling with hers as he pressed closer. “Never moving.”
A playful hum escaped her. “What if I need to get up?”
“Too bad.” His voice was muffled, bratty and sharp. “You’re stuck with me.”
She smirked, her fingers combing through his hair. “I’ve handled worse.”
He pulled back just enough to catch her eye, his lips quirking into a crooked smile. “You saying I’m not a challenge, Romanoff?”
“Oh, you’re a challenge, alright.” She leaned down, brushing a kiss against his temple. “But I like a good challenge.”
“Good.” He nuzzled back into her, his breath warm against her skin. “Because I’m not going anywhere, either.”