Disclaimer (not forgotten this time!): I don't own the Avengers. Or...basically anything else. :)

A/N: I make the (pretty unbelievable) assumption that Natasha could beat Steve in hand-to-hand combat. So, before you kill me, don't say I didn't warn you. He wouldn't want to hurt her, and she has ten times his training. You've forgotten one very important thing, mate. She's the Black Widow. Savvy?

Oh...if you still want to kill me, please be nice about it.

Natasha

Tony, or "The Death Glare"

Natasha and Clint arrived at the Avengers Tower about two weeks after everyone else did. Two minutes within entrance of her guest room, the tracker in her phone and the five security cameras in the hall were disabled. Rather hurt, Tony didn't bother replacing them. He lived in fear of her death glare.

So it was that the first thing Tony noticed about Natasha was that she was talented. Extremely talented. The word brilliant was reserved for himself, but in other circumstances it could – hypothetically – have applied to the Black Widow. Old Popeye was lucky to have her.

There was a sort of universal understanding regarding the training room. Clint and Natasha in the mornings, Steve in the afternoon, and Natasha again in the evenings that often stretched into nights. On a certain evening Steve was still there, attacking a punching bag, when Natasha entered with Tony on her heels, whining about "why Clint could call her Nat but he couldn't" until the gun strapped to her waist clicked and he shut up. Rogers looked up and started to unwind the straps around his knuckles, mumbling an apology, but she got there first and offered to train with him.

Tony kept calling Bruce until he got down there – particularly frustrating seeing as he'd hacked his phone and changed the ringtone to "Call Me Maybe" only fifteen minutes ago. An exasperated Dr. Banner agreed to come watch "Nat beat the hell out of Capsicle" in order to make him stop. He did not agree to accept Tony's bet of fifty dollars that she'd win within the next half an hour.

Steve looked stupidly nervous. It was obvious he didn't want to hurt her. He kept glancing around for support and asking "Are you sure?" until Natasha punched him. Hard.

It took her fifteen minutes rather than the promised half an hour to win the fight. Tony jumped up, clapped and reminded Bruce that he owed him fifty dollars – or a coffee – before the day was out. The Black Widow smiled – actually smiled – at Steve and for a moment almost looked like she might laugh. That moment lasted about two seconds before she turned and gave Tony the fabled death glare. He grabbed Banner's sleeve and made a hasty retreat.

The second thing he noticed about Natasha was that while she often acted the mature one along with Pepper and was willing to make jabs at the boys' expense (Pepper betrayed him!) she would not tolerate any questions about her personal life, her feelings or her well-being. Questions about past would earn you the death glare; emotions, sarcasm; injuries, shrugs. Tony, ironically enough, caught on to this first, maybe because he did the same thing. He hated questions almost as much as he did being handed things. He couldn't seem to get away from them. Rather than getting used to recounting his whole life again and again, he brushed them off. It was bad enough that he'd had to live it once. He took measures to ensure that no one knew he was living it again and again. He was Tony freaking Stark. Let them think he was invincible. It was always easier to swallow a well-worn lie than the truth.

One night after dinner, as per Mission Introduce Capsicle To Modern Technology ("Men and spiders assemble!"), they all gathered in the living room – Pepper trying to explain something to Steve, Tony sprawled over the corner where the two couches met, Bruce holding a cup of tea, Thor comparing the merits of cookies 'n cream ice cream to pop-tarts, Legolas perched on the back of the couch with chips, and Natasha on the end, head next to Clint's hand, flicking through S.H.I.E.L.D. files on her phone at unbelievable speeds. Tony idly turned on the T.V. and then rolled his eyes. They were showing some stupid ballerina thing. A rail-thin girl in a pink tutu pirouetted in the arms of some guy in tights under gold lights and fluffy pink scenery. So. Much. Pink. God, what channel was this?

Focused on displaying the epitome of boredom, he looked up at the ceiling. "Jarvis – "

He hadn't noticed Natasha get up.

Then the gun clicked.

His head whipped around faster than normal experiences could account for. He was just in time to see her hand jerk away from the trigger as if it had burned her. Both reactions lasted only one frozen, caught-in-the-act moment. Natasha gave him the death glare and he raised his hands in mock surrender. Still glaring, she stalked out of the room. No one said a word. Onscreen the dancers continued to twirl around, the romantic classical music somewhat ruined by the tension in the atmosphere.

Not wanting to speak to order Jarvis, Tony reached for the remote and switched channels. Propping his head up with his hand, he turned and raised an eyebrow at Clint. "Katniss?"

Clint just shrugged and shook his head. You shouldn't ask me and no, don't go after her. Tony went to get himself some alcohol. The day that Natasha Romanoff had a history with frilly tutus was the day Odin adopted a Frost Giant. Or at least, the day Tony Stark got drunk over it.