Archive of Our Own

He lies to a lot of people. He lies to Pepper, to Rhodey, to himself. He lies to the Stark Industries board and to SHIELD. He lies except when he’s brutally honest, refusing to hold anything back as he aims to injure. He lies so often and so easily the bullshit gets mixed in with the truth, and he wears it like his suit, wields it like Thor’s hammer or Clint’s bow.

Natasha can see it, can dig her nails in and peel back the layers of Tony’s carefully crafted armor, leaving Tony feeling raw, open. He fights back by pulling away, telling her not to worry, to stop caring. He’s fine, he’s always been fine.

"You’re a liar, Stark," she hisses, and he waves a hand dismissively.

"Takes one to know one," he retorts, bored.

Natasha’s eyes narrow. “At least I know when I’m lying.”

Tony gives her the finger and a “fuck you,” because Tony’s not sure he even has the luxury of being able to separate his truths from his lies anymore.

*

It’s been nearly three hours of this, endless smiling and schmoozing and laughing at jokes that aren’t funny at all. Tony’s gone through a number of drinks already and it still isn’t helping, and all he wants is a few minutes alone to catch his breath and maybe knock back a couple more drinks before heading back out there.

Fucking figures Natasha would find him.

"I don’t think hiding back here is what Fury had in mind when he told you to come to this party."

Tony glares up at her, looking petulant. “And I don’t think sitting on the floor by the service elevator is the worst thing someone could catch me doing right now.”

"Thank goodness for that." She sits down beside him, curling her legs to the side to accommodate her dress.

"You’ll get your dress dirty," he mutters, as if it matters.

"Now we’ll match," she says simply, and takes the mostly empty glass out of his hand to finish off the liquor it contained. "You have approximately seventeen minutes before Captain Rogers starts looking for you."

"What, Fury tell you all to keep tabs on me?"

"He worries about you." She smiles softly. "Rogers, not Fury. Though I’m sure Fury worries in his own way."

Tony snorts, eyes on the floor so that he can avoid looking at Natasha.

"It’s true. We all do."

That gets Tony to look up, eyebrow raised. “Even you?”

"Even me."

"Well, you’re wasting your time. There’s nothing to worry about." He leans his head back against the wall, stares down the empty hallway.

"Of course not," Natasha says gently, leaning against him, her head on his shoulder. They sit like that in silence for fifteen more minutes, whereupon an anxious Steve Rogers shows up looking for them right on cue.

*

Tony honestly doesn’t think she’ll go for it. He’s drunk off his ass, tie undone and shirt unbuttoned at the top, draping himself over the bar as he says what he realizes the next morning are wildly inappropriate things to the bartender. The next thing he knows, Natasha’s hand is on his shoulder and she’s steering him away. He leans into her (hey, he has an excuse, it’s hard to walk when you’re wasted), whispers propositions in her ear. Natasha laughs and says “Maybe next time.”

Next time happens not too long after, when the team drags itself home from a battle that had felt nearly endless. Tony should be dead tired, but instead he feels electric, adrenaline still rushing through his system. He finds Natasha in the front hall of her suite, stripping off her muddy boots, and she sighs heavily. “Go to sleep, Stark,” she mutters, and it sounds almost fond.

The third time catches Tony unawares, as he’s sitting on the living room couch, tapping away at a tablet displaying his latest project. The tablet’s taken from his hands and Natasha slides into his lap. Tony doesn’t protest, lets her press against him, and they kiss for what seems like ages. It’s possibly the longest Natasha has ever heard him stop talking. He asks her what’s different this time while she pushes him towards his bedroom, and she responds after biting at sensitive skin on his neck, “You’re supposed to be the genius, you tell me.” The door shuts behind them, and Natasha pushes him back on the bed, straddles his waist, and Tony decides he can leave the thinking for later.

*

Natasha sits crosslegged on the bed in her bra and panties, skimming over the files laid out in front of her as she waits for Tony to get out of her shower. She’s unsure why he even bothered using hers instead of just going up a couple floors and using his own, but she just chalks it up to another Tony Stark quirk and leaves it at that. With the way she’d been ordering him around last night, the least she could do was indulge his desire to use her shower.

Hot air and steam blow out of the bathroom as the door opens and Tony reenters the room, toweling his hair dry. Natasha looks up, blinks in confusion, and frowns.

"Is that my bathrobe?"

Tony doesn’t look as contrite as he should be, in Natasha’s opinion. “Maybe.”

"You’re absolutely ridiculous," she tells him with a sigh, turning back to her files. It wasn’t worth it to even argue with him. However… "If you stretch it out I will personally make sure every article of clothing you own shrinks in the laundry."

Tony carefully takes off the bathrobe and sets it aside. Even plush, fluffy comfort isn’t worth Natasha’s wrath.

*

The dance floor is crowded enough that when Tony and Natasha step onto it, no one is really looking except for the few curious passersby. Tony’s known ballroom dancing since he was a child, and it’s no surprise Natasha knows how to dance because she seems to know everything. It’s pretty fucking creepy, not that Tony would admit that out loud.

He sighs as they spin around, and Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Would you rather be dancing with one of the others?”

Tony glances around them, catching sight of their fellow Avengers in various states of attempted waltzing. “Barton’s not bad,” Tony says after a moment, smiling faintly.

"I’d hope so, I’m the one who taught him."

"Sounds like a nightmare."

"You don’t know the half of it."

Tony laughs, and it actually gets something of a smile out of Natasha. “You might have to work your charm on Bruce next, he’s even worse than Cap out here.”

"You’d probably have an easier time of it than I would," she remarks, then reaches around behind her to shift Tony’s hand up off her ass. Tony is unperturbed.

"You think?"

"He’s a little less frightened of you," Natasha points out, and Tony has to agree with that one.

"Cap’s gonna have to be a joint project."

Natasha’s gaze darts from Tony to Steve across the room dancing gingerly with an older woman and trying desperately not to step on her toes. “I think I can live with that.”

Tony grins and dips her low as the song comes to an end. Natasha rolls her eyes, flicking Tony on the shoulder. “That was unnecessary.”

"And when has that ever stopped me before?"

He has a valid point. She sighs. “Just go get me some champagne.”

Tony’s smile doesn’t waver. “I’d flip you off but I think Fury would skin me alive with all these cameras around here.”

Natasha just smiles back sweetly and waves him off towards a tray of champagne.

*

"You’re being ridiculous. It’s just a little blood."

Normally, Tony doesn’t believe Natasha when she says things like this, because to her “a little blood” means “we don’t have to go to the hospital, I can stitch it up myself.” But maybe just this once he’ll believe her. Mostly because the blood in question is coming from a pinprick injury on his thumb. That doesn’t mean he’s not going to milk it for all it’s worth, though.

"I might be dying. Or at least crippled. I’ll never be able to use that hand again."

"If you keep this up I’ll make sure you’ll never be able to use that hand again."

"That’s no way to treat a dying person. Besides, this was all your fault."

"How is it my fault that you’re clumsy?"

"I bought that rose for you, ergo, your fault."

"You’re lucky I’m in the mood to appreciate a sweet gesture instead of just leaving you right now."

"Kiss it better?"

Natasha sighs but kisses the pad of Tony’s thumb. Tony swears it actually does feel a little better.