Chapter 4
Tony had procrastinated many things in his time, but calling Natasha was not one of them. He tapped his leg nervously as the phone rang, staring out of the window at the city and praying she’d pick up. And she did.
“Hello?”
Natasha sounded half-asleep and tired, -well, of course she was, Tony had called her at one in the morning, after all, which he was already mentally kicking himself for- but it was good to hear her voice again, and he felt himself relaxing.
“Hey, Romanoff.”
There was a pause, and then she said, “Tony. I assume you got the letter, then.”
“Mhm. Snail mail, really? I thought you were more up to date on tech than Rogers.”
There was an edge in the way he said Rogers, one that had been there for awhile now, since Siberia, and one that Natasha recognized, and found painfully familiar, though she wasn’t entirely sure why.
“I am, trust me. Didn’t think any other form of contact would have a chance to get through to you, though. Letters are easier to classify as your basic fan mail. Figured it was the only way to get the message past Pepper, really.”
Tony wasn’t sure if he had imagined the ache in her voice when she said Pepper’s name, but judging by glances he had seen and conversations he had accidentally interrupted, he would almost be willing to bet that he hadn’t.
“…okay, yeah, I see your point. You could have tried to talk to her first, though.”
Natasha almost laughed. “You really think she would have listened?”
Yeah, he definitely wasn’t imagining the ache.
“Maybe. I’m not sure. She’s always had a soft spot for you, and you know it.”
And she did know it, she really did, but Nat also knew how Pepper worked, and she knew her priorities and where her loyalty lay.
She knew she never would have gotten this call, no matter how Pepper had felt about her. (She didn’t even entertain the notion that Pepper might still feel that way; Natasha Romanoff was many things, but an optimist was not one of them.)
“Maybe so. But I think she cares about you more, especially now, after…everything.”
“You heard about Siberia, then?”
“Everyone heard about Siberia, Tony. Couldn’t look at anything news-related without seeing something related to it. It was nice to see so many people taking your side, though I doubt the constant coverage made things easier for you.”
“Yeah. Nobody gave you any details, then? You just got the civilian version?”
Now she did laugh. “Maria told me bits and pieces, but did you really expect anyone to tell me anything? I’m a traitor who’s under house arrest, people aren’t exactly lining up to give me reports.”
Tony winced at the casual way she said this, knowing that she didn’t mean to make him feel bad, though he still felt bad anyways, as usual.
“Don’t call yourself that.”
“What, a traitor? It’s true.” How Natasha had managed to say that so casually, how she had kept the pain out of her voice, she would never know. Calling her a traitor was the easiest way to hurt her -mainly because she would accept it as true. Because a traitor was what she was raised to be, all she had ever been, and, really, her handlers in the Room shouldn’t have been surprised when their perfect weapon did exactly what they taught her to and betrayed them.
“Tasha.”
The old nickname slipped out so easily and sounded so right that it surprised both of them slightly, a callback to days of easy trust and quiet friendship.
“…okay, fine. I won’t call myself a traitor.” Doesn’t stop it from being true, though, she silently added.
“Thank you.”
“Of course. So…how are you?”
Natasha didn’t explicitly mention Siberia, didn’t need to, because Tony knew immediately what she meant. He had to choose his words carefully, make sure to tell her enough without telling her too much, because she had always been able to get him to say more than he wanted to about how he was and what he was feeling.
“I’m…pretty fucked up. It’s slowly getting a little better, though. Not much, but a little.”
There was a moment of tense silence, and then she said something so quietly that he almost didn’t hear it.
“I’m sorry.”
An apology from Natasha Romanoff, an actual, genuine apology, devoid of mockery or sarcasm, formed by actual guilt and sorrow and pain rather than a lecture and an order was a rare and precious thing indeed. And Tony knew that, of course he did, he knew everything about her-at least, everything that she would let people know. Nobody knew everything about Natasha.
Not even her, really.
And so Tony didn’t know what to say to her.
Because he knew she was sorry. And, yes, he could accept her apology, but he couldn’t completely forgive her, not yet. But he’d be damned if he threw her emotions and openness back in her face.
“It’s okay, Tasha. I know you are. You don’t need to apologize.”
“Yes, I do.”
And, well, he couldn’t really argue with that.