Chapter Text
Natasha has seen blood on the ice more times than she'd like. She simply can't stop herself from performing risky maneuvers, and, to her credit, she almost always executes them perfectly, except when she fails and ends up cutting herself with her own blade.
Figure skating is a sport as beautiful as it is brutal. Landing on the ice atop a blade after spinning through the air at high speed isn't exactly a walk in the park.
As exhausting as figure skating can be, it's one of the only things Natasha truly enjoys doing in her free time. It's similar enough to ballet that she can appreciate the training she's received, but different enough not to bring back bad memories.
She's about to leave the tower, her skates in her bag and her hair tied in a bun. She's going down the stairs because the tower's elevators are always packed with scientists, engineers, lawyers, or any kind of workers Tony needs at his company. And, although she's spent many nights in her room in the tower instead of her safe house in Queens – for convenience, of course – she still doesn't feel entirely comfortable moving around the areas of the tower that aren't restricted to the Avengers.
She's descending the third flight of stairs when she hears the downstairs door burst open. She immediately goes on high alert, her body's instincts rousing at the possibility of a threat. She pulls her gun from her bag with practiced ease as she slowly descends the stairs.
She stops when she sees a man sitting against the downstairs door. His knees are drawn up to his chest and his hands are covering his face. It only takes Natasha a minute to take him in and realize it's Tony. He's almost imperceptible like this, without his social armor of arrogance and haughtiness that he so enjoys displaying.
She could leave, go back down a flight of stairs and cut through the gym. She could have sneaked past him unnoticed if she wanted to, but something stopped her. Something annoying, strange, and persistent that she'd felt for months. The same something that made her stay for game night, the same something that made her listen to Thor stories when all she wanted to do was read a book in the living room. The same something that made her spend time explaining to Steve how social media worked when she could have just left. The same something that made her leave a cup of coffee for Bruce in his lab when he stayed there late at night and, apparently, the same something that was making her put away her gun and stop in front of Tony.
It took him a moment to notice her and look up, blinking those unusually bright eyes – probably from dehydration – and sighing. "Agent Romanoff." He half-greeted, half-asked, as if the fact that she was there was too unbelievable to be true.
"Stark." She responded with a neutral expression as she observed the trembling in his hands and the pallor of his skin. "I should have known it would be impossible to have a panic attack discreetly when you have two spies living under the same roof."
The joking tone doesn't go unnoticed, and she raises an eyebrow. "Are you having a panic attack?"
The question comes out with an intentional naturalness as she sits down beside him – which she tells herself isn't intentional. He looks at her as if she has a second head, as if the thought of Natasha Romanoff caring about anyone is inconceivable, and she couldn't blame him for that.
He swallows hard, scratches the back of his neck, averting his gaze from her as if she could read his mind if she looked him in the eyes. "No... I just... it's been a rough week."
Natasha tried to remember any event that week that could be more grueling than falling into a hole in space and crashing to Earth unconscious, and she couldn't think of anything in particular. He had drunk more and stayed longer in the workshop than usual – not that she was paying him any particular attention – but nothing that had caused great concern.
"I'm not going to ask," she leaned her head against the wall and stared at the wall in front of them. The silence was different, not necessarily uncomfortable, but not comfortable either. It was just full of thoughts and quiet understanding.
He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, analyzing her from head to toe. She pretended not to notice how his eyes lingered a little longer on her face than usual. "Ballet outfit?"
The change of subject was well received by her. "Ice skating."
The answer finally made him look at her properly. "Hm, that makes sense."
That made her look at him, the way he said it, as if he were paying attention to her, as if he had a folder full of possible likes with her name on it that he stored in his brain. She ignored the thought.
"Because I'm Russian?" she said with a little less venom than she intended.
"Because you are you."
The silence that followed was almost enough for her to get up and leave, but that was before she noticed the continued trembling in his hands and the almost invisible scratches on his neck. She should leave, leave him alone. He probably wanted to be alone—hiding in the fire escape was a clue—but that something, that irritating feeling spreading through his stomach, didn't want him to be alone.
"Stark," she said almost hesitantly, almost cautiously, almost as if she knew she would regret it soon. "Have you ever ice skated?"