The steady brush of Tony's thumb along one of her scars drives some of the tension out of Natasha's shoulders. Though she couldn't tell you why if questioned. It just settles her, the mutual tracing of scars. She can tell without even looking which scar he's following because of the curious way sensation fades in and out. This one cut deep, and it severed some of the nerve-endings, leaving segments of the scar tissue numb and dead. It's not an entirely pleasant feeling, but it's not unpleasant.
As he tells her about the shrapnel, Natasha's eyes flick up to his face and her gaze stays on his ducked head and lowered eyes as he talks. Something in the way he won't look at her, tells her that this isn't an easy subject. And yet he tells her. Again, with this strange trust in her. It's disconcerting and touching and she doesn't know how to begin to process it. Not that she hasn't been able to make men trust her with things they oughtn't have before. Of course she has. She'd be a pretty crap spy if she hadn't. But, generally, she'd been making an effort then, being charming or flirtatious or simply sympathetic. She's pretty sure she's been none of those things since entering the workshop. She's too off-balance, too raw and lost now to even think about making a play at being a person deserving of trust. But here he is, just giving it to her unbidden.
If her hands hadn't been occupied -- one with mirroring his hand against his stomach, the other with making sure that his hand doesn't stray somewhere she doesn't want it -- she might've brushed her fingers across his cheek rather pointedly. His face isn't the piece of him that's littered with scars after all. So, she doubts that the bomb blew up literally in his face.
Natasha's done research on everyone of the Avengers (including herself, though details on her and Clint are pretty scarce), and Tony's life has been the easiest by far to find information on. But, it's not like she's sat down and made an exhaustive timeline of his entire life (yet). More like, she's read countless of articles on him (often out of order) to try to puzzle together a sense of who he is. She knows about Afghanistan. It's pretty hard to miss considering the intense news coverage of the incident. But, she only knows the bare bones of the story. The unit he was travelling with for a PR-stunt was ambushed and he was captured. After a lengthy captivity he was rescued through the tireless efforts of the U.S. military and brought home. Upon his return, he dismantled the weapons manufacturing branch of Stark Industries (aka most of the company) and after that the stories delve into speculation.
Getting caught in the blast of one of his own bombs sounds like a pretty good reason to stop making bombs, but Natasha doesn't like to assume things. For all she knows the bomb may've been on a separate occasion entirely.
"That must've been fun," she says drily. It sounds like the beginning of a nightmare. She kindly doesn't point out the irony in the fact that it's a piece of one of his own bombs trying to crawl its way into his heart. He's a smart guy, she's sure he's figured that one out all on his own. "Why a car battery?" Her fingers have absently been trailing the faint scars low on his belly, and now they bump against the worn denim of his jeans, and she stops, vaguely aware that she should probably move her hand, but too caught up in the story to act on the distant impulse.
no subject
As he tells her about the shrapnel, Natasha's eyes flick up to his face and her gaze stays on his ducked head and lowered eyes as he talks. Something in the way he won't look at her, tells her that this isn't an easy subject. And yet he tells her. Again, with this strange trust in her. It's disconcerting and touching and she doesn't know how to begin to process it. Not that she hasn't been able to make men trust her with things they oughtn't have before. Of course she has. She'd be a pretty crap spy if she hadn't. But, generally, she'd been making an effort then, being charming or flirtatious or simply sympathetic. She's pretty sure she's been none of those things since entering the workshop. She's too off-balance, too raw and lost now to even think about making a play at being a person deserving of trust. But here he is, just giving it to her unbidden.
If her hands hadn't been occupied -- one with mirroring his hand against his stomach, the other with making sure that his hand doesn't stray somewhere she doesn't want it -- she might've brushed her fingers across his cheek rather pointedly. His face isn't the piece of him that's littered with scars after all. So, she doubts that the bomb blew up literally in his face.
Natasha's done research on everyone of the Avengers (including herself, though details on her and Clint are pretty scarce), and Tony's life has been the easiest by far to find information on. But, it's not like she's sat down and made an exhaustive timeline of his entire life (yet). More like, she's read countless of articles on him (often out of order) to try to puzzle together a sense of who he is. She knows about Afghanistan. It's pretty hard to miss considering the intense news coverage of the incident. But, she only knows the bare bones of the story. The unit he was travelling with for a PR-stunt was ambushed and he was captured. After a lengthy captivity he was rescued through the tireless efforts of the U.S. military and brought home. Upon his return, he dismantled the weapons manufacturing branch of Stark Industries (aka most of the company) and after that the stories delve into speculation.
Getting caught in the blast of one of his own bombs sounds like a pretty good reason to stop making bombs, but Natasha doesn't like to assume things. For all she knows the bomb may've been on a separate occasion entirely.
"That must've been fun," she says drily. It sounds like the beginning of a nightmare. She kindly doesn't point out the irony in the fact that it's a piece of one of his own bombs trying to crawl its way into his heart. He's a smart guy, she's sure he's figured that one out all on his own. "Why a car battery?" Her fingers have absently been trailing the faint scars low on his belly, and now they bump against the worn denim of his jeans, and she stops, vaguely aware that she should probably move her hand, but too caught up in the story to act on the distant impulse.