What the hell did Tony think he was doing?

Natasha was in the kitchen when Tony strolled in, an open bottle of gatorade in hand, trying to cover up his apprehensiveness. He tried for a nonplussed expression, but his grip one the gatorade was too tight; she could see something was eating at him by the way his free fingers flexed and unflexed, too tense to be normal. Now, the team had been briefed on the Vulture's identity, but they had little reason to fear Adrian Toomes. She immediately raised an eyebrow.

"Tony," she said slowly, "Is there something you'd like to talk about?"

Tony didn't answer her immediately. He elected to give the room a good visual sweeping, then asked, "Hey, Fri, where is the rest of the team?"

"Mr. Rogers is in his quarters, planning Mr. Toomes' arrest and writing his speech for the upcoming fundraiser for the New York Public Library. Mr. Wilson is training with his falcon apparatus, Ms. Maximoff is speaking with Vision in your lab, and Colonel Rhodes is out on assignment. Mrs. Parker is having dinner with Peter."

Tony frowned. "Uh, Fri, she's not-"

"No offense, boss, but I thought it would calm your nerves."

Natasha raised another eyebrow, standing up to her full height. Tony held her eyes for a moment, then looked at the floor. "Thanks."

"Anytime, boss."

"Why do you sound happy?"

"I'm an AI, boss. I don't have emotions."

Tony cast a brief glance at Natasha again, who could already feel incredulity forming in her gut. He grunted. "Right."

FRIDAY didn't respond, leaving the two in silence for a few moments, as Tony settled himself at the table, taking a swig of his gatorade. "Are you just gonna look disappointed until I talk?"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "You came here. I assumed you'd be doing the talking."

Tony looked away a third time, head spinning. Another space of silence passed before he finally let out a long sigh. "So, uh, I talked to you - the kid."

Natasha's raised eyebrows shot downward, and the incredulity burst up like a guyeser. She marched over to Tony while the man looked back tiredly, grabbing his neck. She squeezed a pressure point, making Tony groan and attempt to get away from her. Natasha responded by pressing the point of her boot on his toes in his right shoe.

"Are you kidding me?" she said. "Are you trying to blow this up?"

"Please, let go," Tony wheezed, wincing. Natasha increased the pressure. "Please."

Natasha took another moment of pressure, ramping up before easing off on Tony's neck. Her boot shifted, so instead of grinding into his toes, it was prepared to stomp on them if need be. Tony tried to quell his nervousness. "Explain."

"Well, uh, funny story," Tony began, "You see, I thought that, for him - it would be kinda weird, wouldn't it, for not to interact with the kid, seeing as how Steve has been? Also, he's a total genius. Brilliant, you should-"

Natasha glared.

Tony's eyes jumped toward the table, then back to her. "Okay, that's crap. But, uhm - hmm. See, what I - what I'm trying to say is that I, uh." Tony took in Natasha's face, full of cold, exasperated rage. "I just wanted to get to know him."

Natasha's lips twisted into a frown. "You could have ruined his life."

Tony blinked. "How would finding out his mom's an avenger ruin anything?" he shook his head, "Nat, he loves us." Tony paused, weighing his words. "And uh," Don't, Tony. For the love of- "I'm sure he'd love you. You're his mom."

Natasha's hand was back on his neck in a flash, and not a moment later white-hot fire made Tony shut his eyes, sucking in a sharp breath.

"I was an incubator," Natasha said evenly, "Incubators don't have feelings. The second they came out, they were taken away." Natasha increased the pressure, "They were forced on me when I was sixteen." Natasha's nails cut light trenches into Tony's skin. His eyes bulged. "That child is offspring, Stark, and for all intents and purposes, the only family they have is May Parker. Understand?"

Tony's eyes were beginning to water. He nodded swiftly, and Natasha eased the pressure off his neck slowly, over thirty achingly long seconds. He gasped as Natasha stepped back from him, watching the man massage his neck impassively.

"When you do see them," Natasha said, "You will be cordial. Say you're busy if they ever ask to come into your lab again, and if I find out you've been taking them there behind my back," Natasha's neutral features appeared even scarier than her aggravated ones as she leaned back into his personal space. "Your death will be a bloody, tragic accident after this is all over."

Tony nodded again, as he blinked the water out of his eyes. "Does," he coughed. Don't do it, Tony, don't- "Does Clint know?"

The thought hadn't crossed his mind until then because - well, hrm, probably because he was too busy projecting to actually think about it. Or what Natasha might do to him if he talked to Peter. Or how one of his teammates had a secret kid the entire time that he'd known her, and that kid was now staying with them. Or how Peter was even conceived; sure, he'd guessed that Natasha hadn't chosen to have a child, but...

You're an asshole, Tony.

Natasha looked very ready to slap him. "No. And if you do anything to clue him in, you will lose everything in your lab."

Tony nodded for the third time. Natasha turned away from him and went back to making herself a dinner, while Tony failed to keep himself from looking at her, a mix of self-disgust, derision, and sadness slowly building up in his windpipe.

Natasha, without looking at him, asked, "Something else on your mind?"

Tony finally dragged himself to his feet, sighing heavily again. "No."

Natasha said, "Do what I told you too."

"Right." Tony said, turning on his heel and swiftly exiting the room, grabbing his gatorade along the way. He took a long drink of it as he exited, feeling even worse than he thought he would.

Natasha sat at the kitchen table fifteen minutes later, a plate of rice, greens, and chicken in front of her, none of which she had an interest in.

She supposed she shouldn't have expected much better from Stark, yet even so, she was furious. That self-centered idiot could destroy the remaining distance she had left, and all because he couldn't separate his own memories from reality.

Howard Stark was a terrible father. Natasha was… absent. Absent for good reason, absent because she had to be; she deserved to make her own choices, and even if she ignored that, by the time she was in any state to raise anything, they already had a loving family. They were a Parker in every aspect save for blood, but even there, blood wasn't necessarily what made a family. The team was proof of that.

Natasha got up from her chair and as fast as she could, began tucking her food away in tupperware. It would most definitely be cold by the time she actually ate any of it, but that wasn't what mattered. As long as she ate it, she would be fine. She put the lids on the containers a bit too aggressively, which made her pause for a moment, before she left the room briskly.

Natasha knew she had to put away the food before she could make it to the gym. She had no desire to, but she deposited it on her desk, realizing just a moment before she turned to leave that she'd forgotten to grab utensils. Natasha blinked, glancing down at her hands, to the tupperware, and then to the surface of her laptop, whose reflection of her wasn't exactly flattering. Briefly, a glare began to cut across her face, before she shook her head. Everyone made mistakes.

But as she wove through the halls toward the gym, her headspace wasn't quiet. Her own words replayed, sharp, cutting, and far too provocative. Part of her was replaying conversations with May, seeing the picture in the Parkers' apartment; kept repeating that more words had been exchanged-

Natasha shook her head once more, picking up her pace. Within a few more minutes, she was able to push the door to the gym open, grabbing a pair of hand wraps and boxing gloves. She took on a ready stance in front of the bag, squaring her shoulders and taking in a deep breath.

The incredulity was long gone by now. Old emotions had tagged themselves in, and as such Natasha imagined them in the forms of her many, many enemies.

The first punch she threw didn't move the bag much. She could feel the impact on her knuckles through her protection. It was like getting bitten by a mosquito. Her next punch came when the bag as the perfect distance away, and the bag began to sway a bit. She threw two hooks in quick succession, then an uppercut, followed by a round kick.

The bag was properly swaying now. She had to time her strikes just right to make sure she didn't over or undershoot, but Natasha regarded that as nothing more than a challenge to overcome. By the time she actually started to sweat, her knuckles groaned with every punch, and her toes were complaining alongside them. In response, Natasha caught the bag, making its movements still, and began another round, putting twice the effort in.

By the time she was finished, the anger hadn't abated. Timing made it so the visages of her old emotions being battered and bruised, running away with their tails between their legs, had yet to form. And forming them in her minds' eye as she stretched felt remarkably childish, if she was honest with herself. She avoided looking at the mirrors that lined the walls as she left the gym.

It took her an hour and a half to fall asleep that night.