Stark didn't say anything, not to Natasha and, as far as she knew, not to anyone else. Not even to Rhodes, who was his oldest friend. But the man who flew back to the States was a different one from the one who left it.
As soon as they landed he sent all the others home, but asked – asked, not ordered – Natasha to stay. So she joined him in the back of the car that Happy brought to drive them home, to the bodyguard's displeasure. Happy pulled up to the driveway at the Malibu mansion and unloaded Stark's things from the trunk, as well as Natasha' single duffel bag. She followed Stark in.
"Welcome back, sir." She jumped at the disembodied English-accented voice.
"Hey, J," Stark said. "Jarvis, Natalie. Natalie, Jarvis."
"Hello, Ms Rushman," the AI greeted her.
"Hi," she returned, hesitant.
"He takes care of everything in the house." Even tired and dispirited, a touch of pride crept into Stark's voice. "If you need anything, let him know."
Happy brought the suitcase and Natasha's bag in. He looked peeved when Stark dismissed him, but didn't question the order other than give Natasha a shifty look, which she ignored, and he left.
Then they were alone.
"I'm gonna shower," Stark muttered. He waved his hand at the empty mansion. "Come on, I'll show you your room." He led her up the stairs. Natasha followed, wheeling Stark's suitcase in one hand and her bag swung over her opposite shoulder. In the west wing he came to a room in the middle of a curved hallway. "Your room," he said, opening the door. "Mine's the last one down there." He pointed. The door of the master bedroom was just around the curve, out of her sight.
"Is this hallway the only way to get to your room?" she asked.
"Yeah, 'cept for the windows," he said, scratching the back of his neck, "and those face the sea. Listen, I'm gonna shower, so, y'know, make yourself at home." And with that, he took his own suitcase and headed down the hallway.
Natasha went into her room. It seemed bigger than her entire apartment, which was a shabby one-room affair containing nothing but the narrow iron-framed bed in a corner, a modest closet, the unstocked open kitchen, and a single desk and chair. This room was about as far from that as possible. The floor was cream-carpeted, matching the crisp sheets on the double bed. The bed frame was made from a dark brown wood and curved elegantly at the ends. The far wall was a huge window that looked over the pool, and if she angled a little to the west she could see the Pacific Ocean glimmering just below the house.
She swept the room for bugs, more out of habit than necessity. This was Tony Stark's house after all, and the man was nothing if not paranoid. She found three and suspected a fourth near the camera on the ceiling, but she was certain that there were more she hadn't discovered. That put her on edge – knowing that she was on camera in a space that was supposed to be hers and safe. Every instinct in her was screaming to destroy the bugs and camera.
She wouldn't be able to kill Stark now, not with all the cameras and recording devices in this house, not to mention Jarvis. She took a deep breath and the knot in her stomach began to untangle. She let herself relax, to enjoy this room that was hers for an indefinite amount of time. She knelt down next to her duffel and unpacked her stuff, putting the few clothes she had brought with her to Afghanistan in the huge wardrobe. She locked the door and undressed, dumping the clothes on the floor. She had been on a plane for nearly 20 hours, on the road for over 24, and she felt grimy all over.
Her bathroom was as nice as the bedroom. All yellow tile and white porcelain, with a tinted one-way window that overlooked the garden and pool. She took a shower; the warmth of the water loosened the tight muscles in her shoulders and back. She stepped out of the shower refreshed, her skin a light pink from the heat instead of its usual paleness. She put on fresh clothes and went out.
She headed down the hallway, which was completely bereft of any photos, to Stark's room. The door was closed so she knocked. "Mr Stark?" There was no reply. She knocked again. She contemplated entering; she would hate it if he had survived being kidnapped by terrorists in Afghanistan only to slip and die in his bathroom at home.
"He's not in, Ms Rushman." The AI's voice made her jump, but Jarvis at least had the good grace not to comment on it. "You will find Sir in the workshop."
"Um, thanks." Despite Jarvis's life-likeness, or maybe because of it, she couldn't help the awkwardness of knowing that she was talking to an AI.
She went downstairs to the basement. She found the workshop behind a glass door with a code pad next to it. Stark was inside, wearing a Black Sabbath t-shirt, stretched and faded. He had a hologram in the air and was moving the blue immaterial piece around. He would talk to himself or to Jarvis every few seconds, his sentences cluttered with technical jargon. Natasha tapped her knuckles against the glass. Stark started, looked up, swung his head around wildly like an alarmed rabbit. Then he spotted Natasha and relaxed. "Let her in, J." His voice came muted through the glass.
The door swung open and Natasha entered. She said, "What are you doing?" It came out harsher than she'd intended and Stark flinched.
"Just a… design thing," he answered half-heartedly. Natasha raised an eyebrow at his despondent tone. Things were definitely not right if he was acting this way. The man she knew and had been planning to kill would have showed off.
"Yeah?" She forced herself to soften her voice. "For what?"
"New project," he said. "More of a hobby than company… stuff." He trailed off.
"Oh." She knew how awkward she sounded. She was the Black Widow, for God's sake – put her in any situation and she could charm her way out of it. But she couldn't deal with one billionaire, who was not unlike all those other billionaires she had seduced or killed, except that he'd been through some sort of near-death experience and was having a crisis. "It's late," she blurted out. "We've been up for close to 36 hours, I know you didn't get much sleep in the flight."
He waved a hand dismissively. "If I wanted someone to cluck after me I would've gotten Pepper. Go to sleep, Natalie."
The use of her borrowed name struck like a fist to her chest that left her winded. She was Natalie. Natalie, not Natasha. She had to remember that, couldn't get attached. Because at the end of the day, no matter what he was struggling with – she had to kill him. For the glory, she told herself, but she knew that it wasn't true. It was because she was compromised and killing him was the only way she could stay alive. So she said, "goodnight Mr Stark," with just the right amount of coyness in her husky voice (but there was something real and sincere in there too). Then she went back to her room, leaving him alone in his workshop with the spinning blue images and his demons.