The women’s restroom in Stark Tower.
This place is usually empty.
Afternoon sunlight slanted through the window panes, the vanity mirror was wiped until it gleamed, the marble tiles felt cool, and the soap dispenser was filled with that brand that smells like seven hundred dollars a bottle.
In a rich person’s restroom, even the air feels high-end.
Natasha Romanoff pushed open the door to the innermost stall.
Her outfit today was a pair of slim-fit black dress pants, the belt buckled just right, the top two buttons of her white shirt undone, making her look like the standard template of an “efficient female secretary” from head to toe.
Of course, that’s assuming you don’t pay attention to how she walks—that gait has nothing to do with being a secretary and everything to do with a highly trained assassin.
She closed the stall door.
Turning around, she bent at her slender waist, pinched the belt buckle with two fingers, and deftly undid it.
Pulling her pants down revealed a stretch of thigh that made it impossible to look away; her legs were long with clean lines, and as she sat down on the toilet so casually, the entire movement was natural, even elegant.
Then— “Knock, knock, knock.” Two lazy, unhurried knocks came from the next stall.
“Ahem, Widow, Widow, please respond if you receive this, this is L.” Natasha:?
Her bottom was a mere centimeter away from the toilet seat.
She didn’t sit down for that last centimeter.
She straightened her back, her expression shifting from “normal person” to “really wants to kill someone right now.” “…Why are you here?” “Agent Coulson went to chase a hammer that fell from the sky,” Luke’s voice floated over from behind the partition, sounding exactly like someone leaning against the wall, “The Director asked me to take his place for this rendezvous.” Natasha took a deep breath.
“No,” she said, her voice very low, enunciating every word, “I’m asking you, why choose the women’s restroom to meet?” “I don’t want to either!” Luke’s tone held genuine grievance, “The problem is, aren’t you currently undercover?
If people see us appearing in the same place, wouldn’t all your hard work over the past few months be for nothing?” Natasha raised her hand to cover her face.
Her palm was cool, and she pressed it against her face for three seconds to calm down.
“Fury really knows how to cause me trouble.” “Hey!” There was an immediate reaction from the next stall, his tone tinged with the grievance of being wronged, “What do you mean by that?
I don’t want to be squatting in the women’s restroom either!
Besides, I’ll be leaving right at six, you don’t have to be so repulsed by me.” Natasha lowered her hand from her face.
“Is that the reason you only showed up at five-forty in the afternoon?” “It’s about efficient time management, you know how I—” “Luke.” “Yeah?” “How long did you drag your feet?” The silence from the other side lasted three seconds longer than usual, and then Luke’s voice reappeared, carrying the kind of certainty that only comes when there is truly no evidence left: “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Natasha closed her eyes for two seconds.
Director, you owe me.
She ultimately chose to drop the subject.
“What instructions did the Director have you pass on?” “None, I’m just here to keep you company.” “Keep me company.” “Emotional support.” Natasha fastened her waistband again, the movement executed with precise, clean force; her pencil pants were back in place, the lines hugging her legs taut once more.
She stood up and adjusted her jacket.
Luke muttered, “…You’re quite emotional, huh.” He snuck a glance at the time, then thought about it and decided to show some humanitarian concern, tentatively asking, “Are you on your period?
Do you need me to buy you some of that stuff?” Thwack.
The partition was kicked.
Luke moved like the wind, teleporting out of the restroom door and onto the hallway, where he brushed off his hands and shook his head helplessly.
So she won’t even accept good intentions.
Fine then.
He leaned against the hallway wall, his brain starting to run on autopilot.
He was clear on Tony’s situation.
At this stage, Stark had just returned from Afghanistan; his injuries hadn’t fully healed, he had a pile of psychological trauma, but he hadn’t reached the most dangerous point yet.
According to the original trajectory, Tony would next lock himself in his lab to do R&D, churning out the Mark series one by one; that period was tedious and long, with no one able to get in or out.
Luke counted on his fingers.
This is at most a preparatory period.
Iron Monger going head-to-head with Tony?
That’s still early, it would have to wait until later— He raised his hand to check his watch.
5:56 PM.
Four minutes left.
He took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
Four minutes; even if some unexpected trouble popped up, if he moved fast, he could handle it properly and still leave on time.
“Phil!
Phil—!” From the other end of the hallway, a flurry of footsteps pounded down—not walking, but running, and running quite frantically.
Luke looked up.
Pepper Potts, Tony’s personal assistant, was currently sprinting toward him in a manner completely at odds with her usual precise and efficient professional image, her high heels clicking against the tiles, each sound filled with urgency.
“Phil—!
Phil—?” Luke straightened up.
“Ms.
Potts, what’s wrong?” He tilted his head and took a step forward, “Are you looking for Agent Coulson?” Pepper’s footsteps stopped.
She froze for a second, her eyes clearly showing “Who is this guy?”, and then her voice went up half an octave, “How do you know Agent Coulson?” “I’m also with S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Luke said matter-of-factly, pointing to himself, “Agent.” Pepper’s gaze slid slowly down from his face.
White shirt.
Casual blazer.
Sneakers, standard model.
At first glance, he looked like some middle manager stretching his legs in the hallway.
Her eyes were filled with suspicion.
…This guy says he’s an Agent?
Luke read that look and sighed inwardly.
Fine, stereotypes, huh?
Do Agents have to be uniformly equipped with black suits, sunglasses, and earpieces?
Pepper spoke: “S.H.I.E.L.D.
Agent.” “Yes.” “In front of the women’s restroom.” “…” Luke was silent for about three seconds.
Then he chose the most correct way to handle it— Strategically skip, don’t mention a word of it.
“Ms.
Potts,” his expression shifted gears, becoming serious, “You’d better have a good reason, otherwise I only have four minutes left—” “Obadiah!” Pepper grabbed his arm, her voice lowered but unable to conceal the urgency within it, “Obadiah is researching that suit of armor, Iron Monger, he wants to use it to harm Tony!
I need S.H.I.E.L.D., now, immediately!” Luke’s mouth hung open.
Four minutes.
He looked down at his watch.
5:56 PM.
Iron Monger.
It’s appearing already?