Chapter 13
The past few days had been uncharacteristically peaceful. Tony and Natasha had slipped into a rhythm—lazy mornings tangled in sheets, quiet afternoons spent together, and evenings filled with soft laughter and shared secrets. It was a kind of normalcy Tony hadn’t felt in years, and he clung to it with both hands, desperate to believe it could last.
But beneath the surface, Natasha quickly learned how broken Tony truly was. She’d wake in the dead of night to find his side of the bed cold, the ghost of his warmth lingering on the sheets. She’d find him in the lab, hunched over half-built projects and endless blueprints, his hands moving with a mechanical precision that spoke of sleepless nights and restless thoughts.
She tried everything to bring him back to bed—soft bribes of whispered promises, gentle hands guiding him away from the harsh glow of his monitors. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. And on the days he slipped into his suit and took off on unsanctioned missions, she felt the anxiety gnaw at her, a mirror to his own.
Today, however, was different. Tony had been on good behavior, lounging beside her as they shared breakfast, his hand brushing against hers over coffee mugs and half-eaten toast. He looked almost at ease, the tightness in his shoulders softened, the lines on his forehead smoothed out.
But then Friday had spoken up, her calm voice cutting through the quiet. “Sir, there’s an urgent situation in Russia. It requires your immediate attention.”
Tony’s demeanor shifted instantly, the mask sliding back into place. He was Iron Man again, and nothing Natasha said could change his mind. He suited up, kissed her temple, and promised to be back by dinner.
The mission itself was straightforward. A tech company in Russia had been hacked, sensitive data breached by an unknown source. Tony handled it with surgical precision, firewalls reconstructed, data restored, the threat neutralized before it could escalate. It was routine. It should have been easy.
But on the flight back, something snapped.
The snow-laden landscape of Russia stretched beneath him, a canvas of white and gray. The horizon was a smear of dying light, the sun sinking below the curve of the earth. He should have felt relief, pride even, but instead, an unease crept in.
The whir of his suit, the soft hum of its machinery, suddenly felt too loud. Each breath echoed within the helmet, the hiss of filtered air too sharp, too mechanical. His hands tightened against the controls, metal fingers trembling as if they didn’t belong to him.
And then the memories hit.
Siberia. The cold bite of the bunker. The clang of metal against metal, Steve’s shield crashing into his chest. The blank stare of the Winter Soldier as he drove his fist into Tony’s ribs. The betrayal, the ache of loss, the helplessness.
He needed to get away.
If he flew high enough, maybe he could outrun it. If he broke through the atmosphere, maybe he could leave it behind—the memories, the pain, the weight of his own guilt. His thrusters flared, and he shot upward, the sky darkening around him.
“Sir, you need to maintain altitude,” Friday’s voice was a distant echo, lost beneath the roar in his mind.
Higher.
The Iron Man suit tore through the sky, thrusters blazing white-hot as Tony Stark pushed the limits of his ascent. His hands clenched the controls, knuckles bloodless beneath the cold metal of his gauntlets. The sky darkened, the blue thinning to an inky twilight as the earth curved below him. He had to go higher—escape the echo of gunfire, the crushing weight of old ghosts, the suffocating press of reality.
But as he climbed, the world around him warped. His HUD blinked erratically, altitude markers spinning like a slot machine. His breath rasped against the helmet’s interior, the sound sharp and hollow. The air thinned, and every inhalation became a labor, a desperate pull that yielded nothing but cold, empty space.
“Sir, your altitude is unsafe. You need to stabilize,” Friday’s voice filtered through, a gentle hum against the cacophony in his head. But the words were water against stone, slipping away as his mind tumbled deeper into chaos.
The flashbacks crashed over him—white-hot bursts of memory searing through his thoughts. The Siberian bunker. The clang of metal on metal. Steve’s shield slamming into his chest, his father’s voice on the old film reel, the hollow thud of his parents’ bodies against cold pavement.
Higher.
Tony’s breathing quickened, a wet, ragged sound. His chest felt too tight, his ribs a vice closing in. He tried to focus on the HUD, the familiar lines of code and readouts, but they bled together, shapes distorting, numbers flashing red and white. He couldn’t tell where he was. Couldn’t feel his own body.
“Tony, you’re experiencing an anxiety attack. Please descend.” Friday’s voice rose in urgency, but Tony thrashed against it, metal fingers clawing at his chest plate. He needed out—out of the suit, out of his skin, out of his own mind.
He pulled at the armor, the hydraulics whining in protest. His fingers scrabbled against the emergency release, but Friday had locked it down. He was too high, too close to the Kármán line, where the atmosphere thinned to nothing, where a single tear in the suit would mean instant death.
“Let me out!” His voice cracked, a raw, desperate wail. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs burned, every breath a needle through his chest. His vision tunneled, the world narrowing to a pinprick of light.
He spiraled, the suit’s thrusters misfiring as he jerked and twisted. His limbs flailed, the suit struggling to compensate, sending him into a sickening spin. Up became down, the earth and sky trading places in a dizzying blur.
The suit plummeted, free-falling through the atmosphere. His body jerked with the sudden drop, the G-force slamming him against the interior. Pain flared—sharp, electric—but it was distant, dulled by the overwhelming terror swallowing him whole.
He was a dying fish, caught in an invisible net, thrashing against the inevitable. The suit caught itself, jets firing, propelling him back into the sky. And then he dropped again, a cruel puppet, strings tangled, every movement a mockery of control.
“Sir, please focus on my voice. You are safe. You are in the suit. You need to breathe.”
Her words were nothing but static, lost beneath the roar of his own heartbeat. The sound filled his head, a drumbeat of panic. His hands shook, his fingers twitching against the controls. He couldn’t remember how to use them. Couldn’t remember how to breathe.
Images flashed—Steve’s cold, unreadable eyes. Bucky’s blank stare. The way his own voice had broken, pleading, desperate, as he begged them to stop. The echo of metal against bone, the taste of blood in his mouth, the sting of betrayal.
Natasha. Where was Natasha? His mind splintered, paranoia threading through the panic. She had been there when he left, her fingers brushing against his as she kissed him goodbye. But now—what if she was gone? What if the super soldiers had found her? What if he was too late?
The suit jolted, his descent unchecked. The horizon spun, the earth a blur of greens and browns. His body whipped against the restraints, metal biting into skin. His helmet fogged, breath condensing against the visor, smearing his view.
He couldn’t breathe.
He gasped, the sound choked and wet. His chest heaved, muscles seizing. His mind slipped, reality unspooling around him. He wasn’t in the suit. He was back in the cave, back in the cold, damp dark. Yinsen’s voice a ghost in his ear, the sharp snap of the car battery, the copper taste of blood.
The world tilted, the suit plummeting once more. Friday’s voice rose, the automated systems struggling to regain control. He thrashed, limbs flailing, the suit’s servos groaning under the strain. His head slammed against the interior, stars bursting behind his eyes.
He was lost.
Lost in the dark, in the cold, in the endless, yawning space. His thoughts spiraled, slipping through his grasp, fear swallowing him whole. His hands clawed at the suit, metal screeching against metal. His breath hitched, a stuttering, shallow sound.
“Nat—” His voice broke, a shattered whisper.
“Nat—” His voice broke, a shattered whisper.
His hands straightened, fingers rigid and unyielding, and suddenly his thrusters roared to life. The suit jolted, sending him hurtling upward, the world around him dissolving into a blur of silver and blue as he rocketed back toward the Kármán line. His body flailed, limbs twitching as the suit’s systems struggled against his own chaotic movements. Thrusters sputtered, cutting in and out, causing him to lurch and tumble through the thinning air like a marionette with its strings cruelly tangled. His breath hitched, each inhalation sharp and shallow, as if the atmosphere itself had turned to glass, slicing his lungs with every desperate gasp.
The sky shifted, the curve of the earth below becoming a distant, indifferent horizon. Tony’s vision tunneled, the HUD flickering, Friday’s voice a distant hum he couldn’t grasp. His mind was a storm, winds of thoughts whipping through, unanchored and violent. Natasha. Russia. The super soldiers. Blood. Cold steel and colder eyes. How he could have killed them—how he should have—but he didn’t. He failed. Again. The world spun, and he couldn’t tell if it was his body or just his mind unraveling.
He clawed at his helmet, metal scraping metal, as if he could tear his way out of his own skin. The suit resisted, locking him in, the emergency protocols overriding his frantic commands. He thrashed, his body a live wire, every nerve alight with a buzzing, frantic energy. He could feel the edges of reality peeling back, the colors too sharp, the sounds too muffled. His heartbeat was a drum in his ears, an arrhythmic beat that seemed to belong to someone else.
“Sir, you’re experiencing an anxiety attack,” Friday’s voice pierced through, but her words were needles, sharp and meaningless.
“No—no, no, no,” he gasped, his voice strangled by the tightness in his throat. His mouth felt dry, his tongue thick and useless. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. The suit became a coffin, a steel prison pressing against him from all sides. His own invention, his salvation—now his undoing.
Memories crashed over him, a tide that pulled him under. Natasha’s face, a smirk curling at the edge of her lips. The way she had stood with Steve and Bucky, a red shadow against the snow. Her betrayal, sharp as shrapnel, still lodged deep in his chest. She had chosen them over him, left him bleeding in the snow, and yet—yet, she had come back. And now he was the one leaving. Abandoning her. Just like everyone else had abandoned him.
His thrusters cut out, and he dropped, weightless and cold. Wind rushed past him, tearing at his consciousness, but before he could fall far, the suit reignited, flinging him back upward. His body jerked, his spine protesting, and a scream ripped from his throat, raw and ragged. The suit fought him, technology grappling with biology, but he was a tangle of fear and confusion, a dying fish thrashing against the hook.
His vision blurred, tears pooling and freezing against the inside of his visor. He was too high—too close to nothingness. He wanted to disappear, to let the thin veil of atmosphere take him, to slip beyond where gravity could touch him. His mind twisted, showing him flashes of another time, another sky. The wormhole. The cold embrace of space. The silence. God, the silence. It wrapped around him now, smothering, thick and endless.
“Natasha,” he whispered again, but this time it was not a name. It was a plea.
“Tony?”
Her voice. But not the ghost in his mind, not the memory of her. It was real. Too real. Friday’s emergency call, patched through without his permission. Her voice crackled over the comms, soft and sharp all at once.
“No.” His body seized, every muscle pulled taut. His hands pressed against his helmet, trying to block her out, trying to shut out the world. “You’re not—you’re not real.”
“Tony, listen to me. You need to breathe. You need to come down. Friday, lower him—”
“No!” His scream was a jagged edge, slicing through the air. His suit convulsed with him, thrusters misfiring as his limbs flailed, sending him spinning through the stratosphere. His mind fractured, shards of reality cutting through the fog. She couldn’t be real. She was gone. Or maybe he was gone. Maybe this was hell, and he was doomed to float, lost and alone, forever.
"No!" His scream was a jagged edge, slicing through the air. His suit convulsed with him, thrusters misfiring as his limbs flailed, sending him spinning through the stratosphere. His mind fractured, shards of reality cutting through the fog. She couldn’t be real. She was gone. Or maybe he was gone. Maybe this was hell, and he was doomed to float, lost and alone, forever.
His hands twitched, the micro-movements of his fingers sending signals he couldn’t control. The thrusters flared, and he shot upward again, his body a ragdoll in the iron grip of his suit. The earth below became a marble, distant and cold, as he punched through the thinning atmosphere. He could feel the suit’s hydraulics fight against him, metal joints stiffening, and his body temperature plummeted as the blue haze of the sky gave way to the black void of space.
Memories crashed over him, a tidal wave of sharp, glassy fragments. His mother’s perfume, a soft vanilla and lavender, overpowered by the acrid smoke of the car wreck. His father’s stern voice, filtered through whiskey and disappointment, silenced forever by the crushing metal and the winter night. He remembered photos of their faces, slack and pale, the seatbelt pressed against his mother’s throat like a garrote, his father’s hand still clutching the steering wheel, knuckles white in death. He had sat there, a boy, too young and too old all at once, staring at the blood that pooled like ink in the snow.
Hydra found him after that. A lost newborn with dark eyes and darker thoughts. They saw potential where the world saw a victim. His days became a blur of concrete walls and cold steel. They trained him with hands as rough as the gravel they made him crawl through. His fingers bled against metal triggers, the weight of guns too heavy for his small hands, but they told him weakness was death. He learned to pull the trigger before he understood what death meant. By ten, he had already taken lives. By fifteen, he was their Reaper, a child soldier with a man’s body, a predator in the guise of prey. His code name: Merchant of Death. Because he didn’t just bring it—he sold it, dealt it, made it an art.
And then there was the cave. The damp, suffocating dark of the Middle East. Sand in his mouth, iron manacles around his wrists. The echoes of their voices, foreign and sharp, cutting through the hiss of the car battery they used to electrocute him. His skin still remembered the burn, nerves singed and raw. He had built his way out of that hell, forged armor from scraps, turned his own tomb into a weapon. But sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he was still there. Still helpless. Still crawling through the dark, trying to breathe through the metallic tang of his own blood.
He dropped again, the suit losing power, and the ground rushed up to meet him. His body jerked, and his breath came in short, sharp bursts. His pulse was a drum, drowning out Friday’s voice, Natasha’s voice—were they real? Was anything real? He slammed his head back against the helmet, hoping the pain would anchor him, but all he found was more chaos.
The Battle of New York. The city a battlefield, the sky torn open by a portal that bled nightmares. He remembered the way they looked at him—doubtful, distrustful. They thought he was nothing more than a man in a can, a joke in red and gold. When the nuke was fired, no one thought of him. He had taken it upon himself, the burden of saving them, and when he flew into the blackness of space, the cold wrapped around him like death’s embrace. He had been ready to die. No one would have cared. The Hulk had saved him, but no one else had reached for him. No one had called his name. It was as if he had vanished, and no one noticed.
And Jarvis. His own creation, his digital son. He had poured everything into him—his hopes, his intellect, his need for connection. And when Ultron rose, when everything he built turned to ash, it felt like betrayal. Even his own creation saw him as a monster, as the architect of the world’s end. The genius thought he was the villain, and maybe he was. Maybe he always had been.
“Sir, your oxygen levels are—”
“Shut up!” He clawed at his helmet, fingers scraping against the visor. His HUD glitched, the data streams warping into unreadable red lines. He couldn’t breathe. His chest heaved, the suit pressing in, crushing him. The metal was a shell, and inside, he was nothing but splintered bone and blackened ash.
Siberia. The frozen tomb where his life unraveled. Steve’s shield, a blunt instrument of betrayal. The footage—his mother’s last breaths, his father’s desperate struggle. Bucky’s vacant eyes as he crushed Howard’s skull. Steve’s voice, cold and detached: “He’s my friend.” As if Tony’s parents had been nothing. As if their deaths were just collateral damage. And then the shield came down on him, again and again, each strike a syllable: Not. Good. Enough.
Natasha had left him too. They all had. Chose Steve, chose the fugitive, the criminal, over him. He had been the villain of their story, the monster they needed to escape from. They painted him as the tyrant, the narcissist, the broken man who couldn’t be saved. And he believed it. Because who else would?
The suit pitched, his body spinning. His thrusters fired sporadically, sending him careening toward the Kármán line once more. His arms snapped to his sides, the suit locking up, and he was a bullet shot into the void. He felt weightless, lost in the dark between stars.
“Tony! Please, listen to me!”
Natasha’s voice cut through, sharp as glass. He couldn’t tell if it was real. His mind twisted it, warping it into something sinister. Maybe it was just another ghost. Maybe she was here to finish him off, to put the monster down.
“Get out,” he muttered, his voice a thin rasp. His throat burned, and he felt his consciousness fray at the edges. “Get out of my head.”
His fingers flexed, the suit’s systems glitching, and the thrusters sputtered again. He was trapped between gravity and the void, his body shivering with adrenaline and fear. The air inside the helmet thinned, and he gasped, his breath frosting the glass.
“Tony, you need to come back. You need to—”
“No!” He screamed, the sound raw, his vocal cords tearing. The suit shuddered, the metal plates vibrating against his skin. His heartbeat was a drum, and his world was nothing but dark and cold and the endless, spinning sky.
“Tony!” Natasha’s voice drilled into his mind, sharp and invasive, threading through the fractures in his sanity. It cut through the static, a ghostly echo bouncing around his skull. Real? Fake? He couldn’t tell. His mind twisted the sound, warping it into something sinister. Was it her, or was it the suit, or was it him? Maybe it was all him. Maybe he was the monster, and this was hell, and he’d finally gotten what he deserved.
He’d kissed her that morning—hadn’t he? He could still taste her on his lips, the faint trace of coffee and warmth. His hands had rested on her waist, fingers brushing over the soft curve of her hip. She’d laughed, something light and unguarded, and it had made his chest ache. What if that was the last time? What if he’d kissed her goodbye and hadn’t known it? What if he had hurt her? What if, in the fog of his nightmares, he had become something else—someone else—and his hands, these hands, had wrapped around her throat? He couldn’t trust himself. Not anymore. Not after everything.
“Get out.” His voice was a thin rasp, barely more than a whisper. His throat burned as if he’d been screaming for hours, and his consciousness frayed at the edges, unraveling thread by thread. “Get out of my head.”
His fingers flexed, the nanotech responding in jagged bursts. The thrusters sputtered again, a misfired jet of energy sending him veering off course. His body convulsed inside the suit, shivers racking through him as if his bones were made of ice. He was trapped between gravity and the void, a marionette with its strings tangled. The air inside the helmet thinned, and he gasped, his breath frosting the glass. It felt like drowning. His lungs clawed at the oxygen, desperate, each inhale sharp and ragged.
“Tony, you need to come back. You need to—”
“No!” The scream ripped through him, raw and animalistic, his vocal cords straining until the sound became a roaring tone. The suit shuddered in response, the metal plates vibrating against his skin. His heartbeat was a drum, erratic and thunderous, and his world was nothing but dark and cold and the endless, spinning sky.
His hands jerked, fingers stiffening involuntarily, and the suit responded. The thrusters roared to life, a sudden blast that sent him rocketing back toward the Kármán line. The world around him became a blur, stars streaking into white lines against the void. His body snapped against the force, the nanotech cushioning him, but he could feel the pressure, the way his blood struggled against the gravitational pull.
Natasha’s voice followed him. “Tony, please! You’re okay. You’re safe.”
Safe? He was never safe. He was the danger. He was the ticking time bomb. How many times had he hurt the ones he loved? How many times had his inventions, his decisions, his failures cost lives? He could still feel the weight of his parents’ blood on his hands. Hydra’s perfect soldier. The merchant of death. The reaper in a red and gold suit. He’d killed so many, hadn’t he? As a child, they’d handed him a gun and told him to pull the trigger. He remembered the sound of it—the deafening bang, the way the recoil snapped his arm back, the warmth of blood spraying his skin. He was just a boy, but they had made him a weapon.
And what about now? What if that weapon had turned on Natasha? What if, while he was gone, something happened? What if he was too late? What if his absence had opened the door for all the monsters in the dark, and he’d left her alone and vulnerable, just like he always did? He abandoned everyone. He’d done it to Peter. To Rhodey. To Happy. And now to Natasha. She’d come back to him, and he’d left her. He was floating in the sky, and she was probably on the ground, bleeding or dead or—
“Natasha!” His voice cracked, the sound filling his helmet, bouncing back at him. It sounded wrong. Hollow. Like a dead man speaking. “Nat, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Tony, listen to me. You’re safe. I’m safe. You’re not alone.”
Alone. Alone. Alone. The word echoed, reverberating through his mind. He’d always been alone. His parents had died, leaving him with nothing but cold marble halls and empty rooms. Howard’s voice he’d never even heard face to face haunted him, sharp and disappointed, always reminding him that he wasn’t enough. That he’d never be enough. And he’d proven him right. Every mistake, every failure, every life lost was another mark against him. He was a ledger of sins, each one dragging him deeper into the abyss.
And Peter. Oh God, Peter. The kid with too-big eyes and too-big dreams. The only person he’d ever seen as a son. He’d tried to save him, tried to guide him, but what had he done instead? He’d tainted him. Corrupted him. He was supposed to be a mentor, a protector, but all he’d done was show Peter how to build weapons, how to fight, how to hurt. He was the only male role model Peter had, and he’d failed him. He’d probably turned him into another monster, just like him. A smaller, kinder monster, but a monster all the same.
“Peter,” he whispered, the name a fragile thing. He could see him, standing in his lab, suit half-built, eyes bright with hope. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m so sorry.”
His hands twitched, the suit responding with mechanical precision. The thrusters sputtered, flickered, then reignited. He was yanked upward, the suit fighting against his flailing, dragging him back into the thin air of the stratosphere. The atmosphere shimmered, a thin blue line against the darkness, and he could feel the world falling away beneath him. His mind spiraled with it, a whirlwind of memories and fears and ghosts.
“Tony, I’m here. You need to breathe. You need to—”
“No!” His voice was a fractured mirror, every shard reflecting a different fear, a different nightmare. The suit was too tight, the metal plates pressing into his skin, his bones, his mind. He needed out. Needed air. Needed freedom. His fingers clawed at the helmet, nails scraping against the glass, but the nanotech held fast, an unbreakable prison.
“Friday,” Natasha’s voice broke, desperation cracking through. “Override the suit. Bring him back.”
“I’m trying, Miss Romanoff, but he’s locked me out. His manual override is still engaged.”
“Tony, please. I need you. The world needs you. You’re not alone.”
Need.
The word tore through him, sharp and jagged. It burrowed under his skin, curling around his ribs, squeezing until he couldn’t breathe. Need. They needed him. Natasha, with her sharp edges and quiet strength. Peter, with his wide eyes and boundless hope. They needed him, and he had failed them. He had corrupted them.
The suit’s HUD flickered, red warnings dancing across his vision. His breathing came in shallow gasps, each inhale razor-thin. The helmet felt too small, the air too thin, his skin too tight. He was imploding, every fear, every failure collapsing inward until his chest was a black hole, devouring everything good he’d ever touched.
He had turned Natasha—the Black Widow, a woman who had been forged in fire—into someone who needed him. She should have been free. She should have walked away from him, from his chaos, from the mess that he was. But he had tied her to him with fragile strings of affection and promises he couldn’t keep. She had kissed him that morning, soft and slow, as if he were something worth holding onto. And he had let her. He had let her believe the lie.
And Peter. God, Peter. The kid had needed a hero. A mentor. Someone who could guide him, who could show him how to be good, how to be better. But Tony had dragged him into his world of shadows and mistakes. He had handed him weapons and wrapped him in iron, teaching him to fight instead of live. He had made him believe that saving the world meant breaking yourself into pieces.
“Boss,” Friday’s voice cut through, too calm, too clinical. “Your heart rate is at 186 beats per minute. Oxygen levels critical. Blood pressure dangerously high.”
“What?” Natasha’s voice wavered, a crack in her steel. “Friday, what’s happening?”
“Mr. Stark is experiencing acute tachycardia and hypoxia. His body is not responding to the suit’s regulatory systems. At this rate, cardiac arrest is imminent.”
“No.” Her voice broke, and Tony’s mind twisted it, turning the sound into a blade. He could see her, a figment in his fractured mind, standing in front of him, eyes wide, mouth trembling. She was going to leave him. She had to. It was what everyone did. What they should do.
The pleading in her voice only sharpened his anger. He wanted it to stop. The voices. The ghosts. The echoes. He clawed at his helmet, nails scraping the glass, but the nanotech held fast. His own creation, his own prison. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs heaved, desperate, and the world spun, stars smearing into white lines against the dark.
“Tony,” Natasha’s voice softened, slipping through the cracks. “Listen to me.”
“No,” he muttered, his voice a thin rasp. “You’re not real. You can’t be real.”
“Tony, I’m real. I’m here.”
Her voice was too close, too warm, and his mind couldn’t hold onto it. The suit trembled, thrusters sputtering, sending him into another spin. His body was a puppet, strings pulled taut, every muscle rigid and burning.
And then, through the chaos, he heard it. A soft hum. A melody that drifted through the static, threading through his fear. It was gentle, familiar, a sound pulled from a memory he hadn’t known he’d kept. The lullaby. The one she had sung only once, over a pot of simmering chicken noodle soup, when he had been too exhausted to sleep and too stubborn to admit it.
The hum wrapped around him, cool and soothing, like a breeze on fevered skin. His hands, still clenched, slowly unfurled. The nanotech responded, the suit’s thrusters stabilizing, and his descent slowed. He drifted, weightless, held between the pull of the earth and the vastness of space.
Natasha’s voice rose, soft and steady, the words slipping through his haze:
"Качается вагон, тревожная волна,
И песенка моя в дороге не одна..."
Her Russian was smooth, lyrical, each syllable brushing over him. His breathing evened, the ragged gasps fading into shallow but steady pulls of air. His heart, still racing, found a rhythm beneath the melody. His mind, still tangled in shadows, found a thread of light to hold onto.
He floated, still and silent, the suit cradling him in its metal embrace. The HUD cleared, the red warnings fading to a dim glow. His hands hung limp at his sides, the weight of his own fear pressing him down, but Natasha’s voice kept him from sinking.
She sang, and the world narrowed to the sound. To the lullaby. To her.
“Tony,” she whispered, and this time he believed it. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He blinked, his vision clearing, and the stars came into focus. The earth, a blue curve below him, spun slowly. The atmosphere shimmered, a thin veil between him and everything he had almost lost.
He swallowed, his throat raw, and the first tear slipped free. It trailed down his cheek, cool against the heat of his skin. More followed, silent, unbidden, until his helmet was a haze of salt and grief.
“Nat...” His voice cracked, fragile and hoarse.
“I’m here.”
The realization hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest. That voice—her voice—was real. It wasn’t a ghost or a trick of his shattered mind. It was Natasha. The woman he loved. The woman he had just kissed goodbye that morning, her lips soft, her smile a quiet promise of more.
But if she was real, if she was truly on the other end of the line, then what did that mean? Had he hurt her? Had he done something unforgivable? His mind twisted around the thought, every dark possibility tightening like a noose. What if the bad people had gotten to her because of him? What if he was the bad person? What if he had hurt her, killed her, and this was her voice from beyond the grave, condemning him?
“Tony!” The urgency in her voice cut through the static, but he couldn’t hold onto it. His hands spasmed, and the suit’s thrusters sputtered. His entire body jerked as gravity claimed him, and he plummeted.
The sky turned to a blur, clouds smearing into white streaks. The suit’s systems screamed warnings, red flashing across his HUD. The g-force crushed him, his bones vibrating, his vision tunneling to black. The air whipped past, a scream he couldn’t distinguish from his own.
“Tony, pull up! You’re falling too fast—you’ll destroy everything!” Natasha’s voice was a desperate thread, but his mind couldn’t process it. The numbers on his HUD spun, altitude draining away with every second.
If he hit, his impact would be catastrophic. The energy would ripple out, a seismic wave that could sink the entire United Kingdom. The monster would finally do what everyone had always feared. He would be the destroyer.
“Stop!” she cried. “Tony, please! It’s me—it’s Natasha. You need to stop!”
Her voice cracked, and that crack cut through him. It was real. She was real. She was alive. He wasn’t a murderer—at least, not today.
He didn’t speak, didn’t make a sound, but his hands moved. His fingers, stiff and trembling, flexed against the suit’s controls. The nanotech responded, and the thrusters roared to life. He wrenched himself into a tight turn, the metal of the suit groaning under the force, and he shot forward.
The ground blurred beneath him as he hit Mach 13, the speed pulling him taut, his skin pulling against his bones. His mind emptied, everything washing away under the crushing weight of speed and wind and the deafening roar of his own engines.
He aimed for home. The Malibu villa. The only place where the walls felt solid, where the floors held the ghosts at bay. The place where Natasha’s laughter echoed and where once Peter’s sneakers scuffed against the marble.
The villa appeared on the horizon, a speck of white against the blue of the ocean. He didn’t slow. He couldn’t. His body was a wire pulled too tight, and if he stopped, he would snap.
He hit the roof, metal and glass exploding around him. He crashed through beams and concrete, tearing through ceilings and walls, every impact a dull thud against his numb body. He didn’t stop until he hit the lab, the floor cracking beneath him.
The thrusters sputtered, and he barely managed to twist, the force of his descent sending him skidding across the floor. He crashed into a workbench, tools scattering, and finally came to a stop halfway under one of his old cars. The chrome fender pressed against his side, cold and unyielding.
Silence.
The suit’s systems dimmed, the HUD flickering out. His breathing slowed, the air cool and thick as he lay still. His heart, which had thundered so violently before, now found a fragile rhythm, each beat a soft echo in his chest.
“Tony.”
A shadow fell over him, her silhouette cutting through the haze. Natasha was on her knees, her hands trembling as they hovered over the suit. She didn’t touch him, not yet, as if afraid he would shatter under her fingers.
“Tony, please.” Her voice was raw, each word dragged over shards of glass. “Say something. Do something.”
He didn’t move. His chest rose and fell, but his eyes remained closed, his lips a thin line.
“Friday,” Natasha’s voice hardened, a blade. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Mr. Stark’s vital signs are stabilizing,” the AI responded, her tone infuriatingly clinical. “However, he is exhibiting signs of catatonia. His neurological activity is—”
“I don’t need a diagnostic!” Natasha snapped, her hands finally finding purchase on the cold metal of his chest plate. She shook him, but the suit absorbed the movement, giving nothing back. “I need him awake. I need him here.”
“Ms. Romanoff, I am unable to force Mr. Stark out of his current state. His mental health has deteriorated to a point where—”
“Don’t you dare.” Her voice broke, the strength wavering, and she pressed her forehead to the suit. The metal hummed under her touch, a low thrum that echoed through the empty lab. “Don’t you dare say there’s nothing we can do.”
“His systems are operational. His physical body is intact. But his consciousness—”
“Stop.” Natasha’s hands clenched into fists against the metal. “Just stop.”
Her knuckles whitened, the sharp edges of Tony’s suit biting into her skin. She sucked in a breath, but it was all wrong—too sharp, too shallow. Her chest felt tight, anger boiling over until the dam inside her cracked, and the words tumbled out in a snarl.
“Черт возьми, Friday!” she hissed, her Russian accent thick, slipping past the iron grip she usually held over it. “You useless piece of scrap metal, just help me!”
Silence.
She shut her eyes, her pulse throbbing in her temples. She hadn’t slipped like that in years. She bit down, hard enough to taste blood, and forced the rage down, swallowing it back. When she spoke again, her voice was hoarse but steadier.
“Friday, give me a full diagnostic.”
There was a brief pause, as if even the AI needed a moment to recalibrate.
“Mr. Stark’s heart rate is currently 156 beats per minute,” Friday reported, her tone cool and unaffected. “His blood pressure is 180 over 120—dangerously high. He is at risk of a cardiac event.”
Natasha’s nails scraped against the metal as if she could peel it away with sheer willpower. Her mind raced, filing through every bit of medical training she had, every scenario she had run through in the red room. High heart rate. High blood pressure. Potential stroke or heart attack. But none of it mattered if she couldn’t get him out of this damn suit.
“Friday,” she said, her voice a forced calm. “Open the suit.”
“I cannot comply. Only Mr. Stark has the authorization to disengage the nanotech.”
“Override it.”
“There are no overrides available for this model.”
“Then give me access!”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Romanoff, but I cannot—”
“Fuck the commands!” Natasha screamed, her voice echoing off the cold steel and glass of the lab. “I don’t care about your protocols or your security measures. This is Tony. He needs help.”
“Without proper authorization, any attempt to disengage the suit could result in further harm,” Friday argued, unyielding. “Mr. Stark designed this suit to be impenetrable. Not even vibranium could cut through.”
Natasha’s hands trembled. She forced them to her sides, her nails digging into her palms until pain sparked behind her eyelids. Her breath came in ragged pulls, and for a moment, she was lost—her mind a whiteout of fury and fear.
“Fine.” She stood, a new kind of stillness wrapping around her. It was cold, the kind of calm that came before she broke bones, before she ended lives. “If you won’t help me, I’ll do it myself.”
She moved to the workbench, her steps precise, controlled. Her fingers found the handle of a plasma cutter, its weight familiar, a promise of action.
“Ms. Romanoff,” Friday’s voice tightened, a warning. “Any attempt to breach the suit with external force will be met with defensive measures. You could be severely injured.”
“Try me.” Natasha’s grip tightened around the tool. “I’ll carve him out of this coffin if I have to.”
“Mr. Stark designed the suit to withstand all known forms of attack,” Friday said, her tone dipping into something almost human—something almost worried. “It is impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible,” she muttered, but her hand fell to her side, the cutter slipping from her grip. The clang as it hit the floor echoed, sharp and hollow.
Her vision swam, her mind snagging on every thought, every plan, and dismissing them just as quickly. She needed to think, needed to find a way around this. Logic. Strategy. That was the only way out.
She drew in a breath, slow and deep, forcing her lungs to expand, forcing her mind to quiet. The Red Room had taught her how to survive on nothing—no food, no warmth, no kindness. She could survive this. Tony could survive this.
Her fingers brushed against the cool metal of his suit, a tentative touch, like if she pressed too hard, he’d shatter.
“Friday,” she said, her voice a murmur, a truce. “I need options. What can I do?”
There was a pause, the silence thick. And then:
“Mr. Stark’s current state is likely due to a psychological break. His elevated heart rate and blood pressure indicate severe distress. I suggest a method to reduce his panic response—something familiar, something grounding.”
Natasha’s mind raced, and she closed her eyes, letting the memory of that day wash over her. The rain against the kitchen window. The smell of soup on the stove. The soft hum of a lullaby, a melody from her childhood, slipping past her lips as she had stirred the pot. She hadn’t even known Tony was listening, his head resting against the counter, exhaustion painted across his features.
It was a long shot.
But maybe...
She knelt beside him, pressing her lips close to where his ear would be beneath the layers of nanotech. Her voice came, soft and unsteady, the melody winding through the empty air.
“Тихо, тихо, тихий час... Звезды светят нам сейчас...”
Her accent smoothed out, the Russian words a balm against the sterile hum of the lab. The lullaby wove between them, a thread of warmth, a thread of home.
And as she sang, her hands never left him, grounding him in the only truth she could offer—that she was here, that he wasn’t alone, and that she would fight the world itself to bring him back.
The melody lingered, each note wrapping around Tony like a tether to reality. But the shock of it—of her voice, the lullaby—was too much.
His back thrusters flared, the sudden burst of propulsion slamming him into the ceiling with a force that sent cracks spiderwebbing through the plaster. The suit’s systems, still glitching, couldn’t handle the impact, and he crashed back down, the ground quaking beneath him.
“Tony!” Natasha’s voice rose, the soft hum of the lullaby replaced by raw urgency. She moved closer, her hands reaching, but he jerked away, the suit’s servos whining as he struggled to stabilize.
Her singing wove through the chaos, louder now, the familiar Russian tune battling against the erratic beeps of his suit’s failing systems. Tony’s breathing hitched, each shuddering inhale rattling his ribs.
And then, with a gasp that punched through the air, the suit peeled back, nanotech retracting like liquid metal. Tony’s body slumped forward, momentum carrying him into the edge of a workbench. He struck it hard, the metal tools scattering as he hit, and his body crumpled to the concrete floor.
“Tony!” Natasha was at his side in an instant, her knees scraping against the ground. His face was a sickly pale, sweat-slicked and burning. His chest rose and fell too fast, his hand clawing at the arc reactor embedded in his chest.
“No, no, no,” he rasped, his fingers trembling as he pushed her away, not out of anger but out of necessity. His vision tunneled, a pinprick of clarity amid the chaos, and he focused on the makeshift med bay at the far end of the lab—what he called his “heart bench.”
He signed something—a quick, barely-there motion—and Dum-E, his loyal, often clumsy robot, sprang to life. The robotic arm extended, its metal claw surprisingly gentle as it hooked under Tony’s arm, offering just enough support to guide him toward the med bay.
Each step was agony, his legs weak and unsteady. The room spun, Natasha’s voice a warbling echo as she pleaded with him. “Tony, please. You need to lie down. You need to—”
“Can’t,” he mumbled, his lips numb. His chest tightened, and his hand slipped from Dum-E’s grip, his knees buckling. The cold countertop of the med bay met him with a jarring thud, and then his body betrayed him.
His muscles seized, every nerve misfiring at once. His back arched, his limbs convulsing, and a guttural, broken sound tore from his throat.
“Friday!” Natasha’s scream cut through the chaos as she held his face between her hands. His skin burned beneath her palms, his jaw clenched so tight she thought his teeth might crack. “What’s happening?”
“Mr. Stark is experiencing a severe cardiac event,” Friday’s voice was strained, a rare hint of urgency. “His heart rate is dangerously elevated, and his neural patterns indicate seizure activity.”
“Shit.” Natasha’s fingers tangled in his hair, grounding him as best as she could. She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear as she sang, the lullaby breaking and mending with each verse. “Тихо, тихо, тихий час... Звезды светят нам сейчас...”
But even as she sang, her pulse thundered with the knowledge that this might not be enough. She could feel it in the way his body bucked against her hold, the unnatural rigidity of his muscles.
Dum-E whirred to life beside her, its other arm extending, a tray of syringes clicking into place. The robotic claw moved with practiced precision, selecting a vial of clear fluid and drawing it into a needle. Without hesitation, it pressed the syringe into the flesh of Tony’s upper arm, the hiss of the injection muffled by his ragged breathing.
Another syringe. Another hiss. The cocktail of emergency stabilizers flooding his system, but nothing changed.
“Friday, what else?” Natasha’s voice cracked, desperation unraveling the edges of her composure.
“Ms. Romanoff, I need you to step back,” Friday instructed, the lab lights dimming as emergency protocols engaged. “Administering defibrillation through the arc reactor.”
“What?”
Before she could protest, Dum-E’s arm pressed against Tony’s chest, its claw clamping over the glowing reactor. The room filled with a low hum, and then—
Crack!
Tony’s body jolted, his chest lifting off the metal slab as the arc reactor discharged. His pulse, a rapid staccato, suddenly plummeted.
Natasha’s breath caught.
“Heart rate decreasing,” Friday announced, the clinical calm returning to her voice. “Now at 130... 120... stabilizing at 115 beats per minute.”
Tony’s body slackened, the seizure ebbing away, leaving him boneless and trembling. His eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused. Each breath was a wheeze, his chest rising and falling in shallow bursts.
“Tony?” Natasha’s voice was a whisper, her hands cradling his face. Her thumbs brushed over his cheekbones, over the cold sweat and the fever heat.
He sat up abruptly, the motion robotic and wrong. His lungs expanded too quickly, and he panted, each exhale a sharp, whistling sound. His heart rate, now at 115, thrummed beneath her touch, a fragile, frantic rhythm.
“Hey, hey,” she soothed, guiding him back to rest against the cool surface. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
His head lolled, dark eyes half-lidded and empty. He swayed, his muscles too weak to hold him steady, but Natasha was there, her arms a constant, her voice a lifeline.
“Friday, diagnosis?”
“Friday, diagnosis?” Natasha’s voice was steadier now, but the tightness in her throat betrayed the fear still coiled beneath her skin.
“Mr. Stark will continue to stabilize,” Friday responded, her tone clinical but with a softer undertone. “The treatment administered by Dum-E was successful. His vitals are returning to normal parameters. Physically, he is fine.”
Natasha exhaled, her fingers still woven into Tony’s hair, grounding him—and herself—in the tangible proof of his survival.
“But this wasn’t the first time,” Friday continued, her sensors scanning Tony’s barely-there nod. “Episodes of this nature have been occurring regularly for approximately three years.”
Natasha’s hand stilled. “Three years?”
“Yes, Ms. Romanoff. The frequency increased significantly over the past six months.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She should’ve seen it. The signs, the sleepless nights, the manic bursts of energy where Tony would disappear into his lab for days. She thought it was just… him. Just the way he coped. But this? This was different.
Her attention shifted as Tony’s lashes fluttered, his glassy eyes sharpening just enough to find her. His lips moved, the words rasping over his parched throat. “I’m… sorry.”
She shushed him softly, her fingers brushing through his hair, gentle and repetitive. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for.”
But he shook his head, a weak tremor that seemed to echo through his entire frame. “I… I didn’t listen. I scared you.” His voice wavered, the weight of his guilt pulling each syllable down. “I’m so sorry.”
A soft snort escaped her, more a puff of air than a laugh, but it brought a hint of warmth back into the cold, sterile lab. “Yeah, you did scare me, Stark.” Her thumb traced along his temple, the motion grounding. “But you’ve got a knack for that, don’t you?”
His lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Habit.”
Her hands moved, brushing over his scalp, trailing down to cup his jaw. She wasn’t just comforting him—she was checking, her thumbs pressing lightly against his pulse points, feeling the steady thrum of life beneath the surface. The proof that he was real. That he was here.
Tony’s eyes remained fixed on her, the dark pools softening, vulnerability slipping through the cracks of his carefully constructed walls. “I was worried about you.” His voice was hoarse, the admission scraping raw against the air. “You were… you were all I could think about. You’re the thing I want most in the multiverse.”
Her breath hitched.
“I never want to fail you again,” he continued, his hand twitching against the cool metal of the med bay. “You’re the reason I got out of it. I’m not… I’m not cured. I know that. But I think—” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I think I know what happened.”
Natasha’s eyes searched his, the green of her irises deepening, dark with concern. “Tony, you don’t have to—”
“No, I do.” His fingers found hers, weak but insistent. “I need you to know. I wasn’t just… losing it. I was afraid. Of hurting you. Of losing you. You’re the constant, Nat. The gravity when everything else is just… spinning.”
Her lips parted, a soft exhale escaping. She leaned forward, their foreheads brushing. “You won’t lose me. I’m not going anywhere.”
A tremor ran through him, and his grip on her tightened, just a little. “You say that now.”
She let out a low hum, her voice threading through the air like the lullaby she had sung earlier. “I’ll say it tomorrow, too. And the day after that. I’m here, Tony. You’re not getting rid of me.”
His expression twisted, something between a sob and a laugh catching in his throat. “I’m sorry.”
She pulled back just enough to look him in the eye. “Stop apologizing.”
“But I—”
“Tony.” Her tone turned firm, a steel edge wrapped in velvet. “You are perfect for me. And none of this is your fault. None of it.”
He blinked, as if the words couldn’t quite fit into his reality.
“You are the thing I want most,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Out of everything possible. You.”
Tony’s eyes remained on Natasha, the weight of her words settling deep into his chest. His lips parted, a shaky breath escaping as he finally let the truth slip through.
“This… this happens when I get too deep,” he began, his voice thin but steady. “When I get overly depressed or detached. When I think I don’t deserve something good, or when I lose things—people.”
Her thumb brushed over his knuckles, a silent promise that she wasn’t going anywhere.
“It started long before the suit, before the Avengers, before Iron Man.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Back to when I was a kid. Hell, maybe even further back. Hydra had me for the first three months of my life until I was seventeen.”
Natasha’s brow furrowed, but she didn’t interrupt.
“I don’t remember much, just flashes,” he continued. “Cold metal. Harsh lights. The hum of machines. They were… testing something. Genetic enhancements, maybe. I don’t know. I was just a baby. But I think... I think that early trauma just set the tone for everything else.”
Her grip tightened, an anchor in the storm.
“When Siberia happened, when I found out about my parents… it was like losing my family all over again,” Tony said, his voice cracking. “But then I realized… I didn’t. Not really. Because the only real family I’ve ever had is you.” His gaze bore into hers, unflinching. “You, Peter, Happy, Rhodey, Bruce… even Pepper. She was always such a good friend.”
Natasha’s expression softened, a warm glow in her green eyes.
“I just… I miscalculated. I thought I was back to nothing. But I wasn’t. I had you. I just need to work on not getting in my head. On not letting my brain twist reality into something it’s not.”
Her lips quirked into a gentle smile. “That’s a pretty big realization, Stark.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a genius.”
A soft laugh escaped her, and she shook her head. “And humble, too.”
He managed a smirk, the first real sign of life since the episode began. “I try.”
Natasha’s fingers moved to his temple, brushing a strand of hair away. “I’m proud of you, you know. For opening up. That’s not easy.”
Tony’s eyes dropped, a faint flush creeping up his neck. “I’m not used to it.”
“Clearly.” She nudged his shoulder gently. “But you’re getting there.”
A beat of silence passed, comfortable and warm. Then Natasha’s head tilted, a brow arching with curiosity. “So… who’s Peter?”
Tony’s smirk faded, his expression turning thoughtful. “I’ll explain later. It’s not important right now.”
Her lips pressed into a thin line, a mix of amusement and mild frustration. “Fine. Keep your secrets.”
“Oh, I will.”
Their gazes held, a playful challenge crackling between them.
Natasha rolled her eyes. “You know, for a genius, you sure are a pain in the ass.”
Tony’s lips curled into a grin. “You know, for a super-spy, you sure are nosey.”
“I call it thorough.”
“Yeah, sure. Is that what they teach you in the Red Room?”
Her eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint in them. “You wanna find out?”
“Depends.” He leaned closer, their noses nearly brushing. “Will it involve more of that soup you made me last week? Because, not gonna lie, that was life-changing.”
She let out a soft snort. “Oh, you think my chicken noodle soup can save you, Stark?”
“It saved me today, didn’t it?” His voice dropped, the humor giving way to something genuine, something fragile.
Natasha’s expression softened, her thumb grazing his cheek. “Yeah, I guess it did.”
Before the moment could sink into something too tender, Friday’s voice cut through:
“Mr. Stark’s heart rate has stabilized at 67 beats per minute and is projected to remain within normal parameters.”
Natasha’s lips curled into a relieved smile. “Hear that? You’re officially not dying.”
“Not today, at least.” Tony’s grin returned, sharp and mischievous. “Guess I’ll have to save my last words for another time.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve got last words prepared already?”
“Of course. I’m Tony Stark. I’m always prepared.”
“Let me guess,” she deadpanned. “It’s some snarky one-liner about how good-looking you are.”
He gasped, his hand clutching his chest in mock offense. “How dare you? I was going to say something profound. Something that would bring grown men to tears.”
Natasha hummed, unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Sure.”
“Oh, ye of little faith.”
Her hand moved to ruffle his hair, and he let out a small, undignified noise. “Hey, careful! This is an expensive head.”
She smirked. “Yeah? Well, it’s under new management now.”
Tony’s grin widened, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Good. I was getting tired of running it anyway.”
Tony’s grin hadn’t even fully settled before Natasha’s expression shifted, a glint of danger in her eyes.
“Oh, you’re tired of running it, huh?” she echoed, her tone deceptively light.
Before he could respond, her hand shot forward, but his reflexes were faster. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, halting her intended slap mid-air.
“Whoa, whoa—” he started, his voice laced with nervous laughter.
Her eyes narrowed, a predator sizing up prey. “You think you’re cute, Stark?”
“Well, I mean—”
She bonked him on the head with her free hand, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make a point.
“Ow! Hey!”
“That’s for making me realize I don’t have any commands over your suit or Friday,” she snapped, yanking her wrist from his grasp. “What the hell, Tony? Do you know how dangerous that is? How stupid?”
His expression shifted, the amusement slipping into something more sheepish. “I didn’t think—”
“That’s exactly the problem!” She leaned closer, her hands gripping the edge of the med bay counter on either side of him, caging him in. “You don’t think. You act. You decide. And then the rest of us are left scrambling, hoping you didn’t just sign your own death certificate.”
Tony’s lips parted, but she didn’t give him the chance to speak.
“And don’t think for a second that you’re gonna slither out of this just because you had a big emotional breakthrough,” she growled, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous pitch. “You might’ve realized you’re not alone, but guess what? That means you’re going to start acting like it.”
Her face was so close to his, their noses nearly brushing. Tony’s breath hitched, but he didn’t back away. He couldn’t.
“You’re gonna let me in, Tony. You’re gonna let me care. And you’re gonna learn how to ask for help, even if it kills you.”
Her words hung in the air, the sharpness of them piercing through the lingering fog in his mind. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, not from fear but from something else—something warmer, stronger.
Then, before he could process it, her lips crashed against his.
He melted into the kiss, his hands instinctively finding her waist, pulling her closer. She was fierce, relentless, her lips moving against his with a mix of anger and something deeper—something raw.
Between kisses, she mumbled, “You scared the hell out of me.”
He smiled against her mouth, his fingers tightening around her hips. “I know.”
Her teeth grazed his bottom lip, punishingly. “You ever do that again—”
“I won’t,” he promised, his voice muffled as she kissed him again.
She pulled back, just enough to glare at him. “You better not. Because if I have to fight Friday again, I swear—”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling against her. “Noted.”
Her lips met his again, a little softer this time, but no less intense. His hands roamed up her back, feeling the heat radiate from her, the solid strength beneath the soft skin.
“Stubborn,” she muttered between kisses.
“Guilty.”
“Reckless.”
“Absolutely.”
She bit his lip again, and he hissed, his grip on her tightening. “You’re not supposed to be enjoying this,” she chided, but there was a smirk on her lips now, the edge of her anger blunted by his warmth.
“Can’t help it.” His lips brushed the corner of her mouth. “You make threats sound like foreplay.”
Her fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp. “You think this is a joke?”
His eyes shone with mischief. “A little bit.”
Natasha’s response was immediate—a low, dangerous growl as her fingers tightened in his hair. Before Tony could utter another quip, she pulled him into a fierce kiss, the force of it knocking the breath from his lungs. His hands flew to her waist, gripping her tightly, his fingers pressing into her as if she might disappear.
Her tongue swept into his mouth, domineering, leaving no room for argument. Tony surrendered without hesitation, a soft, desperate sound escaping him as he leaned into her, letting her take control. She pulled back just enough for their noses to brush, her breath hot against his lips.
“You think this is a joke?” she bit out between kisses, each word punctuated with another firm press of her lips against his. “You think you can scare me half to death and laugh it off?”
His only response was a shaky nod, his agreement almost reflexive. “Yes—no—I mean, I’m sorry.”
“Good.” She kissed him again, more aggressive this time, her teeth scraping against his bottom lip. “You should be.”
She didn’t give him a chance to reply. Her mouth moved down his jaw, her kisses sharp and biting as they trailed to his temple, then along the curve of his neck. When she found the sensitive spot just below his ear, she bit down lightly, and Tony’s hands clenched around her hips, a shiver wracking through him.
He felt the cool air against his skin before he even registered the sound of fabric tearing. Natasha had nearly ripped his shirt in half, her hands now sliding over his chest, pressing into every muscle and scar with a rough, possessive touch.
“You think you can just…make me worry like that?” she continued, her voice low, a mix of anger and affection. “That you can go flying off into the atmosphere without a damn plan and expect me to sit and wait like some helpless little thing?”
Tony could only shake his head, his voice lost somewhere between the rush of his pulse and the press of her lips against his skin. “No. Never.”
“Damn right.” She kissed him again, swallowing his next breath, her hands cupping his face, thumbs brushing against his cheekbones. He felt as if he were floating again, but this time, he was anchored by the sharp press of her nails against his skin and the grounding weight of her body against his.
Her kisses slowed, shifting from punishing to something softer, but the edge remained—an undercurrent of her fear, her anger, her love. She pulled back just enough to look at him, her green eyes sharp and searching.
“You’re mine, Stark,” she murmured. “You don’t get to check out. Not now, not ever.”
He nodded, his voice soft and raw. “I know.”
For a moment, they were still, their foreheads pressed together, the quiet hum of the lab surrounding them. Then Natasha straightened, her fingers still woven into his hair, a smirk tugging at her lips.
“Get a new shirt,” she ordered, her voice steady but her expression betraying the lingering worry. “And some pajama pants. Meet me upstairs. Or else.”
Tony’s lips quirked, a spark of his usual bravado returning. “Or else what? Maybe I like being in trouble.”
Her eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint in them. “Is that so?”
He swallowed, the sound loud in the stillness. “Uh, maybe not.”
She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. “Now you know how it feels to be sexually frustrated and told no.”
Before he could react, she was gone, a whisper of movement as she disappeared up the stairs. Tony remained seated on the med bay, his heart still thrumming, his skin tingling where her lips had touched.
He exhaled slowly, a shaky smile spreading across his face. “Well,” he muttered to himself, “I guess I’d better get dressed.”
Dum-E, his trusty bot, rolled over, a fresh shirt and pants hanging limply from its arm.
Tony chuckled, taking the offered clothes. “Thanks, buddy.”