"You were following me?" I manage through the blood leaking down my shirt. It hurts a little, but I've had worse.
"Good thing too, apparently." Natasha points out, and opens the driver side door. There's a tense moment, but I let her drive—just this once—and I don't have to give her directions.
Things are a little tricky once we get inside my place. The downstairs john has some first aid stuff, and I strip down to my tee-shirt, wishing I wasn't such a prolific bleeder. I've got stamina, and my footwork's okay, but the curse of my professional career in the ring has always been this tendency to gush from the slightest gash. I swear a couple of my TKOs were simply because I got the damned sympathy vote from the judges.
Eh, water under the bridge. Or maybe blood.
Anyway, I start trying to stem the flow when little Miss Helpful crowds in and starts pulling a Florence Nightingale on me.
"I can do it myself!" I tell her, maybe not in the most grateful of tones.
"Don't be a martyr, Hogan," she tells me in a voice I haven't heard before. It's not her usual business monotone, so I put the lid down on the can, sit down and let her go ahead and clean me up.
It's weird. I'm nervous and the pain is starting to kick in, but I'm also curious about why the hell Natasha's doing this. I'm not Pepper, I'm not Tony—I'm not anybody she's supposed to be looking out for.
"You don't have to do this, but—I appreciate it," I mutter, hoping that covers everything.
"You would have taken him down," she tells me. "Eventually."
"Oh thanks," I grouse, touchy now because both my nose and ego are smarting. Natasha's fingers are gentler than her words, though. She hands me a glass of water and some Tylenol and I take them.
"Think about it, though—two someones were coincidentally waiting for you outside the gate to your house? I'm going to bet that they're a couple of Hammer's men, looking for the same thing we're looking for."
I start seeing the picture, and it's not pretty. "Damn," I mutter. "That's nuts—you saw Hammer's warehouse; it's huge! Vanko could have hidden his stuff anywhere in that place."
"Vanko didn't have access everywhere," Natasha reminds me. "Or time. And Hammer's major domo took off in all the confusion at the Expo. If he's under orders, chances are good that Justin wants those schematics as a hedge against jail time. Hold still-"
She wipes up my face with a cold wet cloth and I let myself enjoy it, but only for a few seconds.
Then it hits me. "The cage," I mutter.
For a second we look at each other, and then move at the same time for the bathroom door; she's littler and gets out first, but I have the advantage of the car keys.
The cage is still there, and after bringing it inside, both of us look it over, pulling off the bottom tray and examining the water cup. Nothing looks remotely out of place, until I tug on the wooden beam that makes the perch across the center. It unhooks and while one end is solid, the other is hollowed out; enough to let a little flash drive slide out.
"I got it!" I tell Natasha, and she gives me another one of those smiles.
I smile back, but I wrap my fingers tightly around the flash drive just the same.
"Let's take a look at it," she murmurs.
"What's going to happen to it?" Suddenly I'm back in the real world, and not so sure what's the right thing to do. If Tony were here I'd pass it to him in a heartbeat, but he and Pepper are still in Flushing, and I've got a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent standing close enough to undo all the nice work she's just done on my nose.
"If it's the schematics for the drones and the electric whips, then S.H.I.E.L.D. will probably hand them to the reverse engineering team already working on the scavenged remains of Vanko's weapons," she tells me honestly. "The arc technology in them is already obsolete."
She may have a point, but I'm not ready to concede it. "Why should I give it to S.H.I.E.L.D.?"
"Because the only other interested party is the military," she reminds me with a frown. "Hammer would use it to get a reduced sentence, and the thought of those drones or whips getting bought up by anyone bidding the right amount of money . . ."
It's not a pretty picture, and I frown back. Sometimes I wish Stark Industries hadn't gotten out of the weapons business, I really do. Tony going all noble makes it tougher to know what the right decision is, but at this point I don't really think I've got a choice.
"What you really mean is that you'll kick my ass and take it from me if you have to," I say to her in a resigned tone.
For the record, Natasha looks genuinely contrite for a moment. "I'm sorry, but yes, I would."
"I figured," I sigh. "Let's take a look at it first, though."
I move into the den and fire up the computer, feeling a little self-conscious. Nobody comes in here but me, and I've got a lot of books on the shelf that I don't want Natasha to see.
Nothing porn; just . . . reference material.
She seems focused on the monitor though, so I may have dodged a bullet as we watch my wallpaper photo of Ali and Frazier comes into focus.
"October first, nineteen seventy-five," Natasha murmurs, and I think I just might be able to fall in love with her for that alone. Any woman who knows the date of one of boxing's most iconic fights has a shot at winning my heart.
I say nothing; not wanting to ruin the moment. I plug the flash in, and tap on the file prompt. Immediately a flurry of backward letters shows up, but Natasha leans closer, mumbling a little.
"Cyrillic," she tells me. "Definitely Vanko. But not . . ."
"Not what?"
"Technical," Natasha growls."This is all just . . . writing. A diary."
I make her read part of it out loud to me, and it's definitely not plans for robots. Most of it is sort of ranting, but there are some poetic turns of phrase, and Vanko's assessment of Hammer as "the walking capitalist American sphincter' has me snorting.
"You gotta admit it's a great description," I point out to Natasha, who simply rolls her eyes and clicks the file closed.
"Be that as it may, this doesn't help us find what we're looking for," she snaps. "Still; we'll run it through Cryptography—maybe there's something there that's not obvious."
"Okay," I tell her, feeling a wave of disappointment. It's been sort of fun to have her around, but I doubt she'll be coming back now that she's got what everyone's been looking for. I watch her tuck the flash drive away in a pocket and sigh.
Natasha gives me this unreadable look. I've seen that written a lot but never knew what it meant. Now I see that it's the same sort of expression you see on the Mona Lisa; mysterious and beautiful, especially on someone like Natasha.
We head to the door. "I guess this is goodbye," I mumble. I'm not really good at those. Part of being one of the background people means that I don't do much helloing and goodbyeing.
She swings around and catches my face in her palms, bending me forward and hooboy, as Uncle Max would say. Me, I'm not saying anything because Natasha Romanov is kissing me.
Kissing.
ME.
It's soft and sweet and hot. She's got the plumpest lips; I can vouch for that up-close and personal now, and between those hands and lips I'm pretty sure I look like an Angus steer who's just gotten the mallet to the forehead, but in one HELL of a good way.
I kiss back; the reflex may be slow, but it kicks in just as Natasha groans and pulls back, tossing that crazy curly hair back.
"See you at work, sweetheart!" she calls loudly, even though I'm right there in her face. Or as near to her face as I can get without kissing her again. I want to kiss her again too, hell yeah. My hormones are surging to the forefront now, ready to rampage now that they've been given the green light, but across the street I see Dolores and her sister standing on their porch, giggling and staring at us.
Natasha flounces off, sassy as shit, that great ass of hers bouncing along in the twilight, and I deliberately close my eyes, feeling like the world's biggest idiot.
Dispiritedly I manage a wave at Dolores.
"Su novia es muy bonita, señor Hogan!" she tells me and I give a nod, moving like a shuffling zombie back into the house, trying not to let the hurt hurt quite so much as I hear the security gate close behind Natasha.
I may be an aging palooka, but even I know when I've been sucker punched. Yeah Natasha is still undercover and is making up an alibi for being at my house after hours. I get it.
I feel so used.
For the next few days I put whatever energy I can into getting Mr. Stark's garage in order and checking on the new security up at the house. Pepper's authorized the renovations—I think she's got most of the contractors on speed dial these days—so it keeps me busy to make sure that things are running smoothly.
Busy is good. Busy means I don't have time to think about a certain tight-assed little redhead and her undercover organization. Part of me hopes that she and her cohorts figure out whatever Vanko was raving about and take off for parts unknown.
Good riddance, you know?
I try to write too; took the time to check what 'indigenous' meant, not that I'd be using it anytime soon. Somehow I can't imagine the Laird of McInnes throwing that out in conversation with his willful and beautiful young fiancée out on the windy crags of Scotland's cliffs.
Still, it's always good to beef up the vocabulary.
Uncle Max takes the check with a lot of grumbling until he sees the name on it. Turns out the bird vet is one of the top ones in the country, to that helped ease things. Uncle Max tries to talk me into a few canaries to make me feel better, but I don't take him up on the offer. I've had enough of birds for a while.
He also reminds me to get a date for cousin Ruby's wedding, which is looming up over the weekend.
Fat chance.
It's only when I pick up the birdcage to pack it away, thinking maybe I can drop it off at Goodwill or something that I realize the perch stick isn't back in place. I try to shove it back in, shook it—
A second flash drive falls out.
Son of a bitch.
This makes for an interesting dilemma. Interesting because it means that now I have something that Natasha is going to want and on the other hand, it's something I don't necessarily have to share with her.
Of course, it could turn out to be nothing—maybe Vanko's porn stash, or his travel documents, but I get the feeling it's not.
Decisions, decisions . . . I stick the drive on my key ring along with my personal one and stay quiet as I get dressed for work.
It's good to meet Pepper at the VIP lounge at the airport; she looks a hell of a lot better now than she did at the Expo, and I'm wondering if it's because of her resignation or the emotional consummation that probably followed it. Not that it's really any of my damned business, but the way she and Tony have been circling around each other, especially in the last year, it's pretty obvious they're meant to be.
And I'm glad. I know they're both better together than apart.
On the way back to SI, Pepper fills me in on a few details and then comes the kicker. "Until Justin Hammer is convicted, Natalie—Natasha—will be staying with us at Stark Industries, Happy."
"Why?" this is out of me before I can stop myself, and I shoot Pepper a glare in the rearview mirror of the limo. Pepper looks uncomfortable.
"Because Hammer-"
And I remember, feeling a rush of anger. "—made a direct threat against you," I finish. Natasha and I *both* heard it over the video linkup.
Pepper nods, looking both pissed and embarrassed. "Tony thinks . . . well, there are places Natasha can go with me that you . . . can't."
I can buy that. I don't like it much, but I know what the Boss means. An ex-boxer hanging around outside a woman's spa is obvious and creepy.
"Happy, I'm sorry," she murmurs and reaches out to pat my shoulder.
"S'okay," I sigh. "There are two of you to look out for now, so it makes sense."
We make it in to Stark Industries and I can't say I'm not a little tense when a certain redhead greets us in the lobby.
"Welcome back, Ms. Potts," Natasha murmurs, handing over a clipboard and not even shooting yours truly a glance.
Two can play at that game, so I wait until the ladies start moving and take flank position with Pepper's briefcase, getting a double view nice enough to make up for any hurt feelings. We all have our preferences, and I make no apology for discreetly preferring a sweet behind.
Two, in this case.
Both girls are chattering a mile a minute as we navigate through the halls and by the time we reach the main office, I've got my game face on; I'm good.
". . . and I'll need you to go out to the mansion to pick up Mr. Stark's wallet and three of his suits," Pepper tells Natasha. "The choice is up to you, but I'd consider the pinstripe Hugo Boss, the linen Blanco Torrido and maybe one of the St. Laurent ones. You can accessorize the cufflinks and dress shirts from the right hand side of the closet, please. Happy will take you."
"I can go myself," Natasha tries to blurt, but I cut in.
"I'm heading that way to sign off on the perimeter installation; it won't be a problem."
It's a very chilly elevator ride down to the ground floor.
One thing I've noticed is that Natasha doesn't fidget. She stands perfectly still and doesn't expend an ounce of unneeded energy, which is probably why she's a hell of a hand to hand fighter. But it's off-putting as crap to other people, and I might have been one of them if I didn't sense that in this case she wanted to fidget.
I bide my time, and give her all the little courtesies that come with the job—opening the door for her, adjusting the temperature. I don't say anything, she doesn't say anything, so I put my concentration on driving.
Driving is like boxing; you gotta know when to weave, when to punch, when to get defensive, and when to deliver the right jab at the right time.
I sense my moment as we're halfway up the long driveway to the mansion.
"We need to talk," I tell her, glancing up in the rearview mirror.
Instantly Natasha gets flinty. "No we don't, Hogan," she shoots back. "We're adults in a complicated world, and you know as well as I do that it's necessary for me to maintain a solid cover while I'm here at Stark Industries, so you can just stop whatever romantic notions you may be entertaining. It was a nice kiss, but that's all it was, and there won't be any more of them anytime soon."
Pretty little speech, well-rehearsed and delivered in that sincere monotone of hers that could cut a guy cold. We pull up to the mansion, and I stop the car, get out, and open the door for her. When Natasha slides out and gets to her high heels, I give her my best bland look. "Actually, I was going to say I found a second flash drive."
She looks up at me, and bingo, the blend of embarrassment and surprise on that pretty face of hers is worth the moment. "What?"
"Yep. Still, I appreciate the nice kiss-off," I tell her, and walk up the steps to the house. This time she's the one scrambling to follow me, and we both hear workmen moving around in the front hall.
"Hogan," she hisses in a voice that puts a lot of threat into a very low tone. I shoot her a sidelong look.
"We've got work to do," I chide her, ever so sweetly.
So it goes like that for the rest of the morning. I do my thing in checking the security arrangements with Jarvis and a few of the tech guys who maintain the perimeter of the estate, and Natasha flounces around getting Tony's personal gear together. Let me state for the record that flouncing is a damned good look on her, too. Natasha practically shoots sparks out of those baby greens of hers when she's pissed, and I know I'm a rotten guy for provoking it, but I seriously enjoy watching her glare at me when nobody else is looking.
After all, what's she gonna do-beat me up?
She might, but I'm betting she won't—it would be hard to explain to the Bosses, and in any case, we've got a lot of witnesses around us at the moment.
Still, when I help her pack the trunk of the limo and get ready to head back to SI, I sense the drive back isn't gonna be as much fun.
"Hogan—" Natasha hisses when we pull out, "I want the second flash drive."
"And I want an apology," I tell her with a quick glance in the rearview mirror. "Making assumptions is a bad habit."
"Like assuming I didn't know how to box?"
Busted. I hate that.
"Yeah? Well that's not the point," I grumble back. "The point is that I'm in the catbird seat right now."
She gives me a look that could crystallize the blood in my brain. "Just what the hell does that mean?"
"It means," I bluff a bit here, "that I get to call the shots for the moment. You're not going to threaten me, and you're not going to sweet-talk me. Instead, you're going to cut me a deal."
Natasha gets quiet for a while, and I can feel the hairs go up on the back of my neck. It's dangerous, yeah, I know that, but it's also a little bit . . . fun.
If I live, that is.
"What sort of deal?" she asks quietly and that's when I get an idea.
A really dangerous, bad idea.
"So, Miss Romanov-can you do the Chicken Dance?" I ask her with a straight face.