"Jarvis!" His lungs are on fire. Tony can't feel his fists unclench; this out of body ordeal cascades. He pokes in the passcode, scowling. "Override—zero-six-eight-gamma." The door slides open; JARVIS is silent as Tony stumbles into his workshop. Time seems to progress in slow motion. The door he's just come through beeps, opening again. Tony jolts up from the floor, unaware he'd fallen. His weightlessness and anxiety are quashed. The elusive super-spy makes her presence known. "What the—Romanoff. Natasha!" Ridiculous super-spy with super-spy training is the last person he expects to see; she's like a sneaky cat, slinking up on people.
"Stark!" Her voice pierces the vastness and irregularity of his fuddled mind. Thick hair slick-straight, vivacious red, is striking against the dull gray of his workshop. She's a knock-out, emphasis on the entire hyphenated word.
What is she doing here? Ask her, dunderhead…
Tony holds off, focuses on that unique hair of hers in lieu of her face, which hints she's all set for lecturing him, he hazards a guess. Does he deserve a good talking-to? Could be…he'd do himself a huge favor if he got his act together, pull his head out of his butt. Much depends on him. He hasn't time to worry if he's liked, if he's cared for, or worthy of praise. He's busy, driven, an industrious inventor, harried team player, he still is one, right? He can't help being the all-around financial-backing billionaire philanthropist extraordinaire.
'Tasha crouches, centering his face in her hands. She's never seen him in this shape before. "Hey—what's going on?"
Now, here's the hard part, a coherent answer. Why would she think there's anything wrong? He's sitting on the floor, no big deal. It's clean, at least, cushy too. He's experimenting. Off to the races, he launches into spirited babbling about H2O, the galaxy, little children, how esters of peach are concocted. He throws a bit about Pepper into his jibber-jabber for good measure. A tad about Afghanistan he tosses in too, keeping it 'real.' Sadly, his bid for coherence falls flat. Is there a point he's striving to make? Long-winded, his true to form, Tony winds down. He's hyperventilating, can't go on with his deluge of words.
Romanoff smiles. Finally… The man's in love with his own voice. As it so happens, so is she. "I'm not Bruce. Therefore, not the best person to be your life coach. He has seven PhDs. The Red Room doesn't hand those out."
Tony struggles to push out, "I don't care" which bears a strong semblance to, "Inngggre." Tasha, I'm glad it's you here and not Bruce…
As far as 'Tasha is concerned, it's all the same to her. He's not doing so well; she's here. What can she do for him? "I'll give it to you straight like I give Clint when he feels like death warmed over. 'Suck it up. Carry on, солдат. Soldier.'" Her hand presses against his arc reactor; his heart rate doubles.
Bam! Get a defibrillator! Who does that—massage someone's pacemaker? Woman, get your hand off mine…
"We're a team. You're a part of that; a big part. We take care of one another…no?"
Breathing gets hard again for him, with her hand right where it is. The flashback of Obadiah Stane perched over him, grinning, writhing, and brandishing the arc reactor pointblank in his gawking face terrorizes him. White spots play across Tony's wavy vision. His rapid blinking doesn't help; the spots remain. Natasha still threatens him with her proximity. She's bent on killing him, he reasons. Must get away! If the arc reactor were a bona fide pacemaker, it would be issuing device in dire distress noises. Where was that inhaler when he needed it? He tries scrambling away, but cannot. He's immobile, powerless, his strength not where it should be. He's at the mercy of the sultry, ruthless Black Widow.
'Tasha senses his preoccupation with her lethal aura, manifesting in his trying to get as far away as he can from her. Tony mistrusts what he hears and how she says it. Yet, she is saying, "Stark—Stark—Tony, hear me—I won't hurt you. I'd never do that! On the contrary, I care. We all care. You're not alone. You'll never be alone as long as I have anything to do with it. Trust me."
Hallucination…Strawberry fields…nothing is real…and nothing to get hung about…
He is sucking in choked breaths that fail to appease his tortured lungs. Tears and snot are everywhere. Strength even to sit up is gone. Inelegantly, Tony doubles over, flattening with the floor. His incoherence worsens. He knows what happens next. He's history.
Natasha braces his head as he sobs and hiccups into her imposing bosom. Ingenious in their own right, her sensual fingers weave trails of compassion through his hair. She rocks as she cradles him. "все будет хорошо, Tony…дорогой." Her voice a whisper, she translates, "It will be all right…dear one." He passes out; she takes over.
Once he awakes, after a lengthy time, he's amazed. His couch is beneath him, a blanket cocooning him. He's no longer swimming in snot, sweat and tears. The last thing he remembers is Romanoff's silky voice cooing to him in Russian. She speaks her native tongue beautifully. He couldn't help thinking as she'd held him how Chanel No. 5 she'd smelled, ultra-feminine and delicious. Is she still here? If so, where? Tony props himself up on his elbows to have a looksee. Yes, she is so there, mounted on a bench, watching A.I. Artificial Intelligence on a hologram.
Despite a few oversimplifications, the movie isn't half bad.
"All settled in, I see. I'll make popcorn. With butter, or without?" Tony hacks, his gibe's force a shade weak. A phlegm remnant is stuck at the back of his throat. His heart diluting his sarcasm by half, he says, "I have work to do. Feel free to leave before the flick's over." If she really cares about me, she'll stay…
Sighing, 'Tasha gives him a patient expression of facial understanding. "At least you're not angry with me." She half-smiles.
"Who says I'm not?" She didn't kill me. To what do I owe the reprieve? "Well not as angry as I have been in the past. When you betrayed me."
"Don't do that, Tony." She quits the hologram, is sitting with him on the couch in two strides.
"What am I doing?" He sounds as innocent as this day's been long, which causes her to look sad. In turn, he feels bad, decides enough is enough. "I'm messin' with ya. You know me. Mind games king. You're our glue, keeping our team cohesive. One of your many specialties."
"I tried being on your side, and then I wasn't."
Tony takes her hand, gives a one-shoulder shrug. "You're morally-mutable, like me." His smile is infectious, as usual. "Whatever." He searches her unforgettable face with sincere eyes. "I've known that for a long time."
She looks disappointed. "Do you really think I betrayed you?"
Shaking his head, he replies, "Nope," popping the p and groans in frustration. "You're enigmatic. I've always liked that. You never bore." His eyes shoot to the hologram she'd been watching. "I never want you getting killed on a fool's errand. You get that?"
"Agreed. Gotten." She leaned over to brush a kiss upon his cheek, then rubbed at her forehead with a hand, pinning him with a stare. "I do love you. I'm not leaving if you caught yourself thinking that. Running isn't the answer. Staying is. Being with you."
Tony slumped, not knowing whether to cheer, or cry. 'Tasha places her hand atop his head, carding her fingers through his hair. "That feels really good," he takes his time about admitting, not looking too bright. "Where'd you learn to do that?"
Through her teeth, Natasha murmurs, "In the Red Room…"
Tony unabashedly licks his lips, grinning like a clown on steroids. "Bet that's not all you learned." He regrets saying that, seeing a dark cloud pass over her face. "Remind me to keep my mouth shut as much as possible, trying to make stupid jokes." Her long eyelashes hypnotize him. Her plump lips call to him. He cups the side of her face to draw her in. She aggressively allows his induction. "This is no joke," he growls.
"No joke," she answers in kind. "моя любовь…moya lyubov…my love. Anthony Edward, you are absolutely gorgeous. How often are you told that?"
Tony's Adam's apple bobs. He scales her face with greedy eyes like she's the best thing on seven continents. "Takes one to know one, Tasha. Tell me as often as you like. I'll never mind." He kisses the tip of her nose, wanting the look on her face stained in his memory when times got rough. "You aren't sloppy leftovers yourself."
Her heart melts. "Yes, krasivyy." He is beautiful. She sees no reason she shouldn't tell him so, often. His eyes come alive just the way she likes them whenever she does.
"Not trying to be problematic here—"
"When aren't you problematic, krasivyy?" Natasha interrupts, kissing his fingers one-by-one.
His voice rises an octave, shades of schoolboy style. "You love me?"
Natasha's laughter is wicked proof that she is enjoyably candid. "No joke," she drops like a stone, and Tony smiles the smile of the devotedly-appeased. Twisted and playful he runs his fingers through her lush hair.
His breath rushes out. "And here we are," he whispers, stirring those wildly enticing thoughts that jumble her brain.
"In it for as long as we survive, she musters from deep in her throat.
How she said that broke what was left of his heart, as he presses quick kisses to her flawless forehead. "Sneaky, completely loveable spy…" His kiss is deep, soft and lingering. Natasha gives as good as she gets, her true to form.
"We will survive." Her mouth conquers his again; the man of iron whimpers. A sound 'Tasha will treasure always. That, and the way his soft mustache tickles her lips.
