;;redacted

"Never again."

( Ⅹ ) — "Pray tell, what have you sworn off?"

If it was the other way around, and it was down to me to save your life… can you be honest with me? Would you trust me to do it?

I would now.

natasha romanoff is taking none of your shit

If you do this none of your past is going to remain hidden. (extended scene)

Cesare Borgia (via ironmxde)

You know, it’s kind of hard to trust someone, when you don’t know who that someone really is.

Chris Evans in the Captain America: The Winter Soldier gag reel

[  If he were a sane man, he’d give up the act, admit defeat and deny ever having attempted to pull the wool over the eyes of Black Widow herself. Unfortunately for Tony, who is not and never will be classified as anything remotely nearing ‘ sane ’, his only response here is to hope       fingers crossed       that his will’s been updated and send a few quick prayers to some deities above he doesn’t quite believe in.

That wink might as well be an omen of death for all the reassurance it gives him.  ]

                ❝Well, don’t go too easy on me. I           Mr. Stark’s programming can speak for itself.❞

[  Yes, hello? 911? Tony Stark is digging himself deeper into his own Tony Stark-shaped grave. Honestly, at this point, that’s hardly even a plot twist anymore. Concealing the dry swallow of sudden nerves, he sidesteps from his desk and gestures with a stilted flourish for her to follow. Sooner they get this over and done with, sooner he gets to go nurse his multiple broken bones and even more broken ego.  ]

                ❝No, no. We wouldn’t want that. The, uh, boxing ring will have to do.❞

[  And because Tony’s all about coming full circle, they’re about to head into the very room Tony first encountered her. Or, her impersonation of Natalie Rushman anyway.  ]

( Ⅹ ) — "The boxing ring would be perfect."

               There was only so much delaying Natasha could do before she would have to act. That was a reality she acknowledged as she followed the supposed AI, her hands flexing either side of her. She was dressed in her usual attire, the black uniform that was shaped for her ease and comfort. It would at least mean her movements wouldn't be inhibited -- but there were greater concerns than her dexterity.

                And Natasha was staring at the back of it as they arrived at the personal training rink of Iron Man -- or more specifically, Tony Stark. He wasn't helpless nor defenseless outside of his suit of armor, but it was his greatest resource. Where Natasha had nothing but her body and wits, he had an arsenal of weaponry available at the touch of a button. It wouldn't be of much use now...

                 The spy climbed through the ropes, standing on the furthermost corner from Tony. She continued to smile, flexing her joints as best she could. Once comfortable and collected, she waited for the AI to announce it was ready. It was only fair manners. "I hope your joints don't crack out of place like the other training bots. Their heads just popped right off..."

☭│  ❝ You should          not be here. ❞

( Ⅹ ) — "Is that in a literal or philosophical sense?"

• Logan regarded her, his eyes with a piercing intense gaze as she declared that ‘please’ was the magic word he should have used. he knew the word, he knew it’s meaning and usage, though his intentions with it were only rhetorical. she complied though, pleasantly so. and there it was, a smile freed from her stern and professional features she wore as they were a white-collar work’s attire. broken lines on a glass, cracked, chipping down to reveal the purpose underneath. could the smile be veracious? the arcane perception that is Natasha Romanoff had released a glimpse of what lies underneath to the world. the world? no, just the soldier in front of her that was leisurely spread on the black leathered three-seated sofa, so un-soldier-like. legs were gently spread, one arm over the sofa’s back with it’s fingers at the end embracing it’s stability. the Wolverine couldn’t look much more relaxed, or could he? his other hand casually bringing the thick cigar to his mouth, his lips gripping it’s paper-soft cover and his breath pulling it’s pungent aroma and fumious smoke into his being, to swirl and hurl for a moment before it’s shot back out in a steam of a fog. for a few moments counted by the seconds, the smoke veiled his features but his two hazel sequins for eyes glistened. he caught her gaze. interrupted. her gaze still remained strong on him, he felt a surge featherly tingling over him and his eyes remained sniping the target. quiet sounds filled the room, a clink of a plate, footsteps and a thank you. her voice husky and confident.

"aren’t we all, in one way or another?" he mused. his sentences always dressed with his laconic style of speech. short and meaningful, usually - when he wasn’t talking shit. the woman brought a silver platter with refreshments. his kind of refreshments for that matter. maybe stepping into S.H.I.E.L.D. wouldn’t be a bore after all, listening to the director’s sense of honour and interests. their plans and their suggestions. his eyes remained on her delicate movements even as the deadly spy thanked her from afar and pushed the platter towards him. she doesn’t want to drink? hm. his position unchanged for a few instants in time; then his long legs began to grow closer together, his back pushed from the sofa and his arms now more in proximity to his main frame. he placed the cigar on the tray’s U holder, it burned alone as he opened and poured the strong, honeyed coloured liquid into both glasses. first hers, then his. they were more than half-full, not really the standard for such a drink but he could take it, and so could she.

"letting the guest drink alone is not what a host does," he shot with intentive purpose and pushed her glass about an inch closer to her. his voice gruff and deep, bemused his words with definite masculinity, empowering his request. like a duo about to dance a tango, he extended his hand for her to take hold of and be pulled into the soiree. but they weren’t just a woman and a man. he was a mutant with indestructible bones and lethal claws and she was one of the deadliest assassins in the world, with her surroundings as her weapons of choice. in a fortress of war; the lair of all assassins, the domicile of all soldiers. a perfect place for two of the kind. a soldier and a spy. the musical crossfire of thrown words filled the white-domed room. he waited.

( Ⅹ ) — One of the most problematic aspects of reading (and rereading) the S.H.I.E.L.D. database was the perpetual dance of knowing everything about a target while trying to coax more out of them. Natasha had to leave some space for Logan to feel safe in, his personal life and experiences wholly his own, but they weren't. She loved having the upper hand, the whole picture, but it was foolish to assume the database was current. It certainly tried to keep up with all the exploits of high-profile mutants and supers, but it was a changing world. People knew of the surveillance that plagued their day to day life, from birthdates to favorite kind of toothpaste.

               It was up to Natasha to guide Logan, to find out what S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't. The cryptic retort -- aren't we all? -- caught her by surprise. How could he view either of them as new to this world, with his hundred or so years of experience. Surely, he knew he had seen enough to no longer find the world a new place? Or perhaps he operated with the same level of caution, where any day could change and augment into a new experience. She had been here longer than the thirty or so years that reflected upon her profile. She had, had experiences before, beyond, that. She had been twenty-eight for longer than she could recall.

               It was then Natasha let out a scoff, amused by his languid sprawl over the necessarily expensive seating. She sat primly in the middle of her couch, a huge expanse either side of her. The legs were a hard metal, and there were support beams lined along the bottoms -- either could be drawn out for weaponry, should the need arise. She kept a polite level of eye contact, not perturbed by Logan's intensity. She had stared down the Hulk, she had fought gods, she had seen far worse than a gruff Canadian.

                There was a 'tch' sound as her tongue clicked against her teeth, tongue clicking softly. "You got me there. I'm not much of a drinker. Not at work..." And she accepted the glass, her hand encased in the same high-resistance leather as the rest of her figure. The alcohol would have little effect on her, so it was a matter of courtesy that she agreed to drink alongside him. The spy paused, gently clinking her glass against his. "To your cooperation."

                And she took a sip, no shift in expression. She had, had training in the art of poison and toxin dissection, which had worked alongside an appreciation with finer spirits and liquors. The scotch in hand was a Glenlivet 21 Year Old Archive, a purported by the bottle. She took her time to taste and appreciate the scent, unable to fight off old habits. If on a mission, she could ignore the urge. But with nothing but time to kill... Well, why not enjoy it?

                 "I hope it's to your liking?" Natasha offered, smiling across her glass. It was much like it was when she worked for the KGB -- she still had to coerce people into finer moods and receptive states. It helped with their induction into the organization, and their willingness to help out. It was a job all the same, even if she was holding a glass of scotch. It was only because he had asked her to; and she hadn't taken it, so as to show her willingness to accept direction from him. It gave the illusion of power and control when he had none.

                  It was all an act, and she lived for it.

    “You’re so funny.”

( Ⅹ ) — "At least you're finally admitting it." Natasha smiled, arms crossed. "So I owe you then, huh -- is that how it is?"