Natasha's smile widens at his grin and she actually laughs at the joke. The sound is unexpected in the near silence of the workshop, and cut short when she catches herself at it. She can't remember the last time that she laughed without an uncomfortable twist of her stomach reminding her of her rather unique predicament. It gets to her belatedly of course, as punishment for noticing the lack of it in the first place. "All the luxuries one could wish for," she says with mock-wistfulness. "Tell me, did you splurge and get the cockroaches as well?" She is too aware of Tony's touch against her skin (ready to pull his hand away in a heartbeat) not to notice the sudden tension to his hand in response to the light twitch of hers. The cause and effect of that shouldn't be fascinating, but somehow it is. It makes them feel… connected.
"You built that?" Natasha asks and there's honest to god wonder in her voice. Even without touching it, and without any knowledge of advanced engineering, she can tell that it's a complicated piece of technology and he built that. "In a cave?" Natasha has always responded well to talent and skill, and building that thing would've taken both, plus an ingenuity she could never hope to possess. Now, Natasha can tear things down, burn them to ground and pull them apart. But she could never build something. Much less something as intricate as the arc reactor.
Glancing down at the softly glowing circle, her eyes are caught instead by the scars scattered across Tony's chest and abdomen and the realization slowly sinks in that not only did he build that thing in a cave, he must've been in incredible pain at the time. Natasha's never taken a direct shrapnel hit, but she's seen it happen and heard the screams of the survivors. When her gaze returns to his face, there's a new kind of respect in her eyes. Pain is an old friend of hers. She's learned how to deal with it and accept it. But, most people haven't, and that he could go through something like that? Well, it's damn impressive and it pushes her image of him even further away from the one perpetrated by the media.
The subject of pain brings up a question that hasn't crossed her mind before, but ought to have been obvious. It makes her forehead crease in a light frown. Her hand slides up -- slowly and easily -- to the base of his ribs, her thumb brushing along the sweep of the lowest one on the left. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, the slight movement pressing her abdomen closer against his hand, her fingers curling a little tighter around his wrist in unconscious response. "Does it hurt still? The shrapnel?"
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"You built that?" Natasha asks and there's honest to god wonder in her voice. Even without touching it, and without any knowledge of advanced engineering, she can tell that it's a complicated piece of technology and he built that. "In a cave?" Natasha has always responded well to talent and skill, and building that thing would've taken both, plus an ingenuity she could never hope to possess. Now, Natasha can tear things down, burn them to ground and pull them apart. But she could never build something. Much less something as intricate as the arc reactor.
Glancing down at the softly glowing circle, her eyes are caught instead by the scars scattered across Tony's chest and abdomen and the realization slowly sinks in that not only did he build that thing in a cave, he must've been in incredible pain at the time. Natasha's never taken a direct shrapnel hit, but she's seen it happen and heard the screams of the survivors. When her gaze returns to his face, there's a new kind of respect in her eyes. Pain is an old friend of hers. She's learned how to deal with it and accept it. But, most people haven't, and that he could go through something like that? Well, it's damn impressive and it pushes her image of him even further away from the one perpetrated by the media.
The subject of pain brings up a question that hasn't crossed her mind before, but ought to have been obvious. It makes her forehead crease in a light frown. Her hand slides up -- slowly and easily -- to the base of his ribs, her thumb brushing along the sweep of the lowest one on the left. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, the slight movement pressing her abdomen closer against his hand, her fingers curling a little tighter around his wrist in unconscious response. "Does it hurt still? The shrapnel?"