There. Now you're all caught up, dear readers, and I'm stuck. I've got no clue what to do next.
**8**
Ms Romanova goes home with them. She sits on a kitchen stool, sipping tea and answering calmly as Tony quizzes her about the contents of her profile ("Can you really speak eleven languages?" he asks, so she says yes in all eleven). They talk for hours ("what are your thoughts on cookies?" And she replies, "I don't eat much sugary food, but I like toffee."), until Jarvis shoos him upstairs to brush his teeth. When he comes back downstairs, he and Ms Romanova are talking. Tony makes the excellent decision to hide behind the doorway and listen in.
"It wasn't pretty," she's saying. "I barely got out in one piece."
"Hmm," Jarvis says noncommittally.
"Do you know," and her voice is so quiet he can barely hear her, "what they do to traitors?"
No response.
"They start with this." A shuffling of fabric, and Jarvis says, "oh," very softly.
"I wasn't lying," she continues. "Today's the first day I've answered someone's questions truthfully since I was three."
There's a silence, so long that Tony wonders if maybe he should come in, but then Jarvis speaks again. "Why did you stop those men?" he asks.
Ms Romanova huffs out a laugh. "I decided getting room, board and four thousand dollars a month to live with a kid is worth it."
"Smart choice," he says dryly. "May you live to regret that decision."
"It's better than any life I could end up in otherwise," and she sounds so sure of that. "If it's not one shady agency who wants me on a leash it's another."
"As the Widow," Jarvis guesses, "correct?"
"That's correct. And for the record, I'm not a cannibal."
That surprises a laugh out of the old man. "I should hope not."
"I'm thinking you know more than the typical butler," she says idly. "What were you up to before you got to wiping the snot off a kid's face?"
"Would it be too cliche to say World War II?"
"Yes."
"Then I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
"Keep telling yourself that."
Another silence, more comfortable this time. Tony quietly inches backwards, then jumps noisily down the stairs. They look up as he bounces into the room.
"You guys are boring," he whines. "Don't adults know how to talk? Did you just sit there like statues?" He peers into Ms Romanova's teacup. "Ms Romanova didn't even drink her tea!"
"About that," she says, a thoughtful expression on her face, "how about we change it to Romanoff?
Tony blinks. "Why?"
"Because certain nosy folks," she glances in Jarvis' direction, whose expression is the picture of elderly innocence, "might be curious if they hear something else. Lay off the Ms, too," she adds. "That just makes me feel old."
Tony knows better than to fall into that trap. "So can I call you Natalia?"
"Natasha's fine," she corrects.
"Tasha?"
"Do you like your plaster the way it is?"
Tony gulps. "Yes, Natasha."
She smiles, all sharp teeth and razor wit. "Good." She stands, walks over to the sink and rinses her cup out. "Thank you for the tea, Jarvis. It was excellent."
"Of course, Miss Romanoff," Jarvis says pleasently. "Tony will show you to your room. Tomorrow we'll send for your things."
She narrows her eyes at his bland smile. "Did you think I gave you the real address?"
"Did you think we didn't see right through that?" Jarvis challenges. "Good night, Miss Romanoff." Tony gives him a quick hug before waving for Natasha to follow him.
"So I was thinking you'd have a bedroom on my floor? There's a room that connects to mine, but..." He shrugs. "They all have furniture."
"The connecting room is fine," she decides. Two flights of stairs and a right turn past seven doors later, they arrive at Tony's room. "Bit of a walk," she observes.
"It's not bad," Tony says. "Jarvis says I need the exercise anyways." He opens the door, gesturing for her to follow. "There's a lot of stuff on my floor," he says apologetically. "Wires and metal and stuff. But there's a path, so you can get around. The bathroom's right there," he points at the brown door in the west wall. "There are extra toothbrushes and toothpaste there. On the other side of the bathroom is the door to your room."
"I'll figure everything out," she promises. "You look tired."
"I'm not," he assures her, but of course this is when he yawns. She smirks. "Sure."
"Well... good night."
"Mr Stark?"
"Please don't call me that," he sighs. "Mr Stark is my dad. It makes me sound old."
"Okay... Tony?"
"Yeah?"
"Why do you want a live-in body guard?"
Tony stares at his bed. "Because when I was seven they took me from my old room."
She seems to understand this is a sore subject. "Your old room?"
"On the first floor." He hesitates, considers how he feels about that. "I can show you, if you like?"
"Maybe," is all she says, and Tony's grateful for it. He yawns again.
"Good night," he says again. She doesn't answer.
**8**
Tony's having a nightmare. He knows it can't be real, because Howard and Maria are there, sitting with Tony and Jarvis on the patio they've never set foot on drinking tea and having a polite conversation.
"You've got a good head on your shoulders, Tony," Howard says, and he's smiling. "You wanna show me what you've been working on this evening?"
Tony's smiling, too, feeling lighter than he has in years. There's no cast on his arm, no yellow bruising or sharp pains and he can see clearly out of both eyes. "Yeah," he answers honestly, and doesn't even consider questioning his father's motives.
"Tony," Maria chides, and it's 'Tony', not 'Anthony', for the first time in his life but not in this world, not in this strange reality. She's been with him every step of his life, and Jarvis has never had to teach him what his parents should have. Jarvis is a friend, a tutor, a fellow prankster who roams the halls and makes things difficult for the maids before laughing and helping them clean up the mess together.
Jarvis is smiling, too, carefree, like he's never had to worry about anything his whole life. He's always been a butler, has never had a mysterious job where he had to know things nobody should have to learn. He's aged gracefully, silver hair slicked back and smooth, every line caused by years of laughter and merriment.
"Yes, sir," Tony corrects himself, smirking just a little. His father nods approvingly.
"More tea, please, Jarvis?" he says, and Jarvis gets to his feet.
"I'll bring the toffee as well, shall I?" he inquires, and disappears. Tony thinks that toffee means something. He learned something about toffee recently.
"Where's Natasha?" he asks, but nobody knows, and neither does he, so he's not concerned.
"Tea, master Tony?" Jarvis announces his presence, and Tony turns so he can see the amused twinkle in his eyes.
"Thank you, Jarvis," he says in a snooty tone, and his butler chuckles. Tony turns back around - "sit properly, Tony, dear" - and watches the teapot lower to his gold-trimmed china cup. A blue tin filled with coffee sits next to his napkin. A drop of red on the white tablecloth. He hears Jarvis suck in a breath behind him. Tony scoots a little to the left so the man can see better; as he thought, the teapot dips smoothly and a deep red tea fills his cup. A small curl of steam curls above the cup.
"Oh my," Jarvis mutters, and Tony sees the red tea all over the table. His head tilts to look Jarvis in the face, but he flinches instead when hot droplets spatter his cheeks.
"Jarvis?" He grabs the napkin and rubs his face clean with it. "Do you need help?"
"I'm fine, master Tony," is the reply, but the teapot falls onto his cup. China and blood spills everywhere, and Tony licks the liquid off his lips. Then Jarvis is in front of him and his parents aren't, the butler's hands pressed to a gaping wound in his stomach.
"Would you like a toffee?" he asks in a normal tone, deathly pale and swaying on his feet.
Tony asks, "Where's Natasha?" and gets meaty hands pulling tight on his hair instead of an answer.
"Shouldn't be relying on women to come save you," a guttural voice says behind him, grating like crunching glass and terrifying as a gun to the head, but the face above him is Howard's. "You don't need no goddamn body guard. Get yourself out."
The hands wrap around his throat and Tony knows he's been here before. He reaches for the toffee tin, calls for Natasha again.
"Shut up and drink your tea," Howard commands, but if Tony can't even get air into his lungs, how is he supposed to drink tea? Helpless tears spill down his cheeks instead, an unhappy medium.
"Quit crying," Howard spits. "You're a Stark, not a child!"
A shadow emerges from the black void around him. It's Maria, only it's not. She's ten feet tall and faceless, nothing but a pearlescent smile above a meaningless body.
"Anthony," the creature coos, jewelry sparkling in the darkness. A lacquered nail taps at his cheek, digging in. "What are you doing here? I thought you'd be at school this time of day." A small laugh. The nail drags down his face and slips away. "Have fun with your father, sweetling, I'll see you next week."
And then she's gone, and Jarvis is curled up on the ground twenty feet away, and Tony says, "Natasha?"
Howard shakes him roughly. "Did you think I wouldn't find out about your new nanny?" Tony sobs. "It's bad enough I let you keep the butler around. Then you go behind my back and hire a woman to protect you? She's more useless than you are."
Tony grabs for the toffee tin. "Where's Natasha?" he asks, and Howard laughs. It's a terrible sound.
"Gone," is the answer.
She's standing next to Jarvis. "Natasha," Tony cries, but she doesn't move. Words are written in deep red tea, all over her face and arms. 'Murderer,' her forehead reads, and the word repeats in ten other languages.
"Do you want a toffee?" Jarvis says at her feet, but his mouth isn't moving and his eyes are cold. Hands come out of nowhere and grab Natasha, tugging on her blouse and pants, smearing the blood on her face and arms and Tony screams for her but she doesn't react at all. Then she's gone, and Jarvis is gone, and the hands are gone, and Tony's left curled up on his chair in complete darkness.
The toffee tin is empty.
He bolts upright at a loud banging noise, staring through the blackness at Natasha, barefoot in a tanktop and pajama pants with a gun in her hand. She jerks her head around, predatory and dangerous, before focusing on him.
Tony jumps to his feet, knocking the chair over, and tackles her with a desperate hug. "You're back," he says into her stomach, "you came back."
**8**
Natasha is stiff as a board under his hands, holding herself still long enough for him to relax before almost twitching away from the contact. Her mouth twitches downwards.
"Are you hurt?" she asks.
Tony looks up at her face, takes in her expressionless features. She's staring straight ahead, arms at her sides. Blackness yawns behind her and Tony swears he can see movement. He doesn't realize he's made a sound until her brow creases and she reaches behind her, into the darkness. The bathroom light flicks on, accompanied by the rattling sound of the fan whirring to life. Tony's breath gusts out of him.
"Oh," he says, and he's not sure when he realized this isn't a dream anymore. He turns and shuffles back to bed.
"Tony?" Natasha's still standing in the lit up doorway.
"'S just a dream," he mumbles into the pillow. "S'rry."
There's a moment of silence, broken by his own squeak of surprise as fingers graze his arms. "Is there," and her voice is a little wary now, "anything I can do?"
Tony rolls his head to look up at her, squinting. "You're my bodyguard," he says, "but you can't protect me from my dreams."
The slight frown lifts a little. "No," she acknowledges, and where did her gun go? "But talking about it helps."
Tony makes a face. "You're not my nanny," he says, but it's less of a protest and more of an accusation. That... yeah, that sounded terrible. "Sorry," he says again.
She just nods. "Is Jarvis your nanny?"
"No?"
"Does he help you when you have nightmares?" And there's a challenging gleam in her eye.
"Yes," Tony replies, considering this idea.
"So why can't I?"
"I don't really remember what happened," he confesses, and it's true. There are bits and pieces, flashes of terror and blood on his hands, but that's it. The memories slipped away when he wasn't looking. He's not sure whether that's a good thing or not.
"I see," she says, and he thinks she reallly does.
"What does Jarvis do for you when you wake up like this?"
"Um," Tony says, confused, "we get juice and tinker for half an hour. Then he makes me brush my teeth and go back to bed."
"Tinker?" Natasha echoes, head tilted. Tony sits up in bed.
"Yeah. We sit on the rug over there," he points behind him, "and make stuff with whatever's around."
Natasha looks around the room. "Then let's get some juice," she says decisively.
"Really?" he asks, surprised.
She shrugs. "Why not?" She goes to his door, cracks it open. Her eyes shine in the hallway light. "If you go downstairs, I have to make sure you're safe. Bodyguard duties, twenty-four/seven."
Tony grins. "Yeah, okay."