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NATASHA

Natasha reads people. That's her job. And there is no one in the world on an equal scale, not even Barton. She takes no pride from it, it just is. The slightest tell could give her all the information she needed to complete a mission, to slowly chip away at that huge mountain of red in her ledger. The most subtle of twitches gave her the location of an underground terrorist organisation, a minuscule change in breath was the key to which mole had infiltrated a SHIELD compound, and the blank stare of a teammate, well. That was an entirely different matter.

Sometimes, Natasha lays in bed at night, lying above the duvet, wondering just how dead she really is that she has no tells anymore. Training and discipline and desperation does things to a person, but what it did to Natasha, raised on it, damaged her to an extent she nor anyone else cannot fathom. Sometimes she wonders how much of her is left. Sometimes she is too scared to acknowledge that she already knows the answer.

And sometimes, on nights like those, when sleep evades her like warmth did on harsh Siberian nights, she is restless. Living in the city, in such an ostentatious, obvious target, sets the agent's hair on end. She is a predator, always has been, but now acts as prey out in the open, It's unnatural and she hates it. And yet, the tower is the only place she has ever felt she can call anything resembling a home. It's for this reason that instead of the usual heavy gear she would put on to move around, she remains in comfortable clothes and barefoot, with room to hide only 2 weapons, which is even more unnatural. But as she has so often been reminded, she is a weapon also, so she continues.

Silently as ever, she walks to the communal kitchen to get a glass of water, or a distraction, or anything to fend off the red red RED RED RED that follows her wherever she goes. In the city that never sleeps, it will never truly be silent, she knows, but up here, above every other skyscraper around, there is a shield, a peaceful barrier. Romanoff knows that Stark knew about that, and did it completely on purpose. She doesn't mention it.

But she does tense minutely as she sees his still form sitting on a sofa overlooking the cityscape. The man who never keeps quiet, annoys his teammates with his moving, his talking, his vivaciousness, is entirely still. He is not dead, however. She picked up on his steady breathing immediately. But trained as she is, the lack of tells he is portraying is the biggest tell of all. She wanders over to the sink, exercising the epitome of comfort and ease, watching him like Hawkeye would. He does not react. She files it into her memory bank. She makes extra noise, is clumsy to evoke response. He still does not react.

"Stark?" It is quiet, but she has calculated the distance. He should hear her.

Water drunk between breaths (Natasha has learned that lesson the hard way - a knife to the jugular as she drank wine normally), she rounds the kitchen table and stands across from Stark.

He does not react.

She tilts her head in curiosity, knowing Stark's threshold. In a normal situation, he would have made a joke or lewd comment by now at Natasha's obvious vulnerability. And he is not the only smart one in the building - she is already calculating which poisons or weapons cause paralysis, what magic may have caused this change, and is considering alerting one of the others, when-

"Agent Romanoff, there is no need to alert any of the other Avengers of the current situation."

She is not surprised. She did not jump. JARVIS' voice was one she would not get used to, however.

"Is he…alright?" It's an odd question for her to ask because this is Tony Stark, the spectrum of alright does not apply.

"Sir is…" and she is surprised at the hesitance in the AI's voice. "This is not an entirely unusual occurrence for Sir. It is, however, the first time one of his teammates has come across him in this state. I fear he will not appreciate it."

"What 'state', Jarvis? Is it something to do with his reactor? Does he need to…reboot?"

JARVIS chuckled dryly and almost wearily at that.

"No, Agent. Sir is no computer. Sometimes I wish he was. He is the most human of all, I fear."

"So what's wrong?" She had an idea, but confirming the fact from someone (and yes, the concern JARVIS has shown only strengthens the idea that he is a someone) so close to Stark, to Tony, is invaluable.

"It is, as you have already assumed, a side-effect of his…PTSD. It is perhaps the worst, in my humble opinion. Look at his eyes, Agent Romanoff."

She did, because she didn't know what else to do. And now she feels like an amateur for not doing so earlier. In the military, in SHIELD, the term 'the thousand yard stare' is used loosely. A shitty mission had guys a bit…shocked, shall she say, but if ever the term fit, it was right here in the Avengers Tower, and right now, in Tony Stark's eyes. His face muscles, completely lax, highlighted the starkness (and isn't that ironic) of the tension in his dark brown eyes. A storm was in full swing behind them and every emotion he had was displayed for all to see, and he had no choice in the matter. It was horrifying. Not even in her darkest day had she seen a soldier or civilian so completely broken. It's with a matching horror that she realises her mistake. All those tells so very obvious on the billionaire's face, are put there specifically for her, or Barton, or anyone who may see more than they should. She doesn't know who Stark is at all, and it scares her. She has not got this wrong before. She called herself intelligent. She is nothing. Not compared to Anthony Stark.

"You see, Agent Romanoff, you may have seen horrors no other should. But you were trained to. Sir has not been afforded such…luxuries. Nor does he feel he deserves any. Sir created myself, a fully cognisant machine, undoubtedly the best design of our time, if I may say so. And yet, his greatest creation is his own mask. More scratch proof than the Iron Man mask, and twice as impenetrable.

So you see, Agent…Natasha. Sir is better at hiding than anyone. I say this only because I know he cannot hear me, for the thought would hurt him immeasurably, and if it is possible to do so, I hate myself for considering the thought but…Tony Stark is a good man, and yet… I can't help but think had he not been punished so much in his life…he could've been an even greater one."

She can feel the regret, and truth in his words. She, despite her classification, has not been give full disclosure on Stark's full past, only because Stark is the only person who knows it. And yet the potential that has been burned and stripped away from the little she does know is almost tangible, and it's heartbreaking.

"I don't know, JARVIS. You may be right. But if he is only good, where do mere mortals stand?" Where does she stand?

The AI humours her by not replying, giving her the peace she needs to mull this new facet over at every angle. She does not understand, but she must.

So she sits down on the floor cross-legged, and watches. Nothing changes, and everything changes. The sun is beginning to tint the sky red in the early morning, a time of day she has always hated. The way blood seeps through snow is too similar. It is an innumerable amount of time before Tony blinks several times, shocks himself, and - now that she knows - puts together each shattered part of his mind like the mechanic he is.

And then he notices Natasha. And the shutters in his eyes clamp down so violently, she flinches. Agent Romanoff, trained from childhood not to react, flinches. And then the facade is raised, and he smiles easily, glitter in those so recently empty eyes.

"Hey there, Natasha, stare at people while they sleep often, do you?" he asks, as he walks towards the coffee maker with his trademark swagger and hums a carefree tune.

He knows she knows he wasn't sleeping. She doesn't mention it.

He does not react.