Why anyone would need something generating enough power to run a city lodged in their chest is pretty beyond Natasha. Her mind's already spinning to sort out the why (coming up with outlandish ideas like Tony being a cyborg of some kind or him… No, actually. Just that. 'Cause what else could it be?) when Tony tells her.
Natasha blinks. She's pretty sure that Tony just told her how she can kill him, in the most painfully slow way imaginable. The arc reactor looks pretty sturdy, but give her the right tools and she's pretty sure she could break it. Hell, there's probably something in this very workshop that could do irreparable harm to the thing keeping his heart from being torn apart by shrapnel.
"Wow. That's-- That really sucks." She can't help but staring at him, wide-eyed and questioning, her hand stilling completely against his skin. How is he trusting her this much? He said it himself, he barely knows the woman she's supposedly grown into, and yet here he is, giving up all of his secrets. There's a sudden, intense pressure over Natasha's chest and for a moment she forgets how to breathe. This level of trust -- especially when given from someone who is clearly struggling with it -- is immense. The only other person who has trusted her like this is Clint when he dug her dart into his skin to prove himself to her. One act of trusts deserves another, and Natasha owes Tony now.
Before she can stop to think about it (and inevitably talk herself out of it) she grabs the hem of her tanktop and pulls it up to reveal her smooth stomach, mirroring him except she stops just short of flashing him her bra. Tony's not the only one with scars. Sure, hers aren't anywhere near as impressive as his, but she still has quite the collection. Of course, most of them are scattered across her body. Like the smooth, round one just above her clavicle and close to her throat, left by one of Clint's arrows. Or the puckered one at the back of her knee from a throwing star. Or the burn mark on her right wrist that's old to this body, but new to her. But, there are a couple on her abdomen. A few faded, thin, white lines from the knife of someone she'd thought she could trust, and the jagged pink one across her abdomen that she doesn't know where she got.
Swallowing just a touch too tightly, and most of the tension from earlier snapping back into place, she snags one of his hands with her free one, and achingly slowly, giving him plenty of time to pull away, she presses it against her bare stomach so that his fingers brush against the most prominent of her scars. A dozen secrets crowd at the back of her tongue. But to her frustration she can't bring herself to voice a single one, because she doesn't trust him. She wants to, but she can't. Some of her frustration flickers across her face before she shuts it down and hides it with a near apologetic smile. It's going to have to be enough for now that she's letting him touch her at all. "Can I touch it, or would that zap me to death?" Her fingers twitch lightly against his skin, but her hand stays where it is.
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Natasha blinks. She's pretty sure that Tony just told her how she can kill him, in the most painfully slow way imaginable. The arc reactor looks pretty sturdy, but give her the right tools and she's pretty sure she could break it. Hell, there's probably something in this very workshop that could do irreparable harm to the thing keeping his heart from being torn apart by shrapnel.
"Wow. That's-- That really sucks." She can't help but staring at him, wide-eyed and questioning, her hand stilling completely against his skin. How is he trusting her this much? He said it himself, he barely knows the woman she's supposedly grown into, and yet here he is, giving up all of his secrets. There's a sudden, intense pressure over Natasha's chest and for a moment she forgets how to breathe. This level of trust -- especially when given from someone who is clearly struggling with it -- is immense. The only other person who has trusted her like this is Clint when he dug her dart into his skin to prove himself to her. One act of trusts deserves another, and Natasha owes Tony now.
Before she can stop to think about it (and inevitably talk herself out of it) she grabs the hem of her tanktop and pulls it up to reveal her smooth stomach, mirroring him except she stops just short of flashing him her bra. Tony's not the only one with scars. Sure, hers aren't anywhere near as impressive as his, but she still has quite the collection. Of course, most of them are scattered across her body. Like the smooth, round one just above her clavicle and close to her throat, left by one of Clint's arrows. Or the puckered one at the back of her knee from a throwing star. Or the burn mark on her right wrist that's old to this body, but new to her. But, there are a couple on her abdomen. A few faded, thin, white lines from the knife of someone she'd thought she could trust, and the jagged pink one across her abdomen that she doesn't know where she got.
Swallowing just a touch too tightly, and most of the tension from earlier snapping back into place, she snags one of his hands with her free one, and achingly slowly, giving him plenty of time to pull away, she presses it against her bare stomach so that his fingers brush against the most prominent of her scars. A dozen secrets crowd at the back of her tongue. But to her frustration she can't bring herself to voice a single one, because she doesn't trust him. She wants to, but she can't. Some of her frustration flickers across her face before she shuts it down and hides it with a near apologetic smile. It's going to have to be enough for now that she's letting him touch her at all. "Can I touch it, or would that zap me to death?" Her fingers twitch lightly against his skin, but her hand stays where it is.