Chapter Text
There's glitter on the floor after the party
Girls carrying their shoes down in the lobby
Candle wax and Polaroids on the hardwood floor
You and me from the night before but
Don't read the last page
But I stay when you're lost and I'm scared and you're turning away
I want your midnights
~New Years’ Day, by Taylor Swift
Chapter One: Alice in Wonderland
“Nat, you cannot be serious,” you say, holding your cell phone to your ear with your shoulder as you frown at the computer screen in front of you. The water temperature calculations in the unit you’re designing are all wrong, and you’d hoped to finish the associated code by tonight.
“You said you’d freelance for me, and I need you. Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are.” Natasha’s voice is every bit as dry as it always is, but today there’s a strong undercurrent of irritation that you hardly ever hear. “I can tell he’s interested, but I actually think the sex kitten thing is somehow overboard. I don’t think he’s going to go for me, but I can read him like a book. He definitely wants a connection, and I can’t risk him ending up with someone else. Bottom line: I need you.”
“I can’t believe you’re using drunken confidences against me right now! I have shit to do!” You were whining a little, but when your friend had joked that she might someday ask you to do some favors for the shadowy governmental agency she works for, you thought it was going to be related to computers, not the billionaire tech genius you’ve secretly crushed on for years.
“I think the hard to get thing might really work. Look, what we need is a sexy delaying tactic. You’re not going to have to sleep with him. You just need to catch his eye and keep him from doing anything really stupid with a woman at this birthday party. He’s feeling his mortality, Cat. We don’t want him to FIND it.”
“I still can’t believe that you, Miss Manipulation, have failed at doing it yourself,” you tease, saving your work and standing up.
“I overcompensated. It would have worked with the man in the file, but he’s not that guy anymore. Can I pick you up at 7?”
You pause in the act of shutting the light off in your office. “Woah, hold on. That was ‘wrapping up the conversation’ language. I have no idea what to wear, how to behave, where--”
“Shy sexy engineer, shy sexy engineer, Tony Stark’s Malibu mansion. I’ll pick you up.”
“Nat!” you protest, but the line has gone dead. The mirror you’ve hung on the other side of the reception desk helpfully reminds you that you’ll need to wear some extra concealer under your eyes, tonight. You’ve been pulling some late nights with this project. Productive ones, sure, but late.
The concept is one of the most ambitious that your small design firm has taken on so far, but you’re passionate about it. The group of investors’ idea was simple: create a kiosk that can help eliminate the waste of single-use water bottles on college campuses. Students sign up and receive a BPA-free reusable water bottle that fits into any of the multiple stations placed around the campus, based on population and traffic patterns. In exchange for watching a few ads for a minute, their bottle is sanitized and filled with clean, cold, purified water for free. Companies can buy the ad space, and hopefully, if the project takes off, all that will be needed is the initial capital and a few fees for maintenance and water, paid for by the college itself.
In theory, your small company made up of five friends with various engineering degrees definitely has the expertise to bring the concept into reality. In practice, it’s a lot bigger of a project than you had initially thought, especially now that a few schools in the area have been contacted by the investors to see if they’d be interested in being the pilot school.
It’s far more coding than you’d anticipated, for one thing, and you’re the only one with the expertise to write it. You’ve got to finish this up, commit it, and then see if it actually works on the prototype in the back room, ideally before noon tomorrow. In a very real way, it’s your reputation, your name on the line if the company can’t deliver, for all that you’re not the face of the company. You’ve got Alan for that part. The stress has been bad enough that you stopped going by your business name in public completely, reverting back to the fanciful name you’d given yourself when you daydreamed about having a secret royal history.
You’ve shortened it to ‘Cat’ nowadays, since you’re not royal, though you are secretive.
Then again, while you’re not really one for parties, you are curious about what a Stark party would even be like. He’s ramped back his playboy lifestyle since miraculously returning from three months in that cave. Not all the way, though, you recall, because there was something in Monaco not that long ago, but you weren’t interested in Stark for that stuff anyway. You crush on his brain, really, though the rest of the package isn’t tough on the eyes.
If you’re honest, you’d been kind of glad that he’d gotten more serious and less reckless lately, so hearing Nat talk about him ‘feeling his mortality’ makes you worried, in a strange way. Ever since you were in high school, coming up on ten years ago, he’s been your celebrity crush, the person you kept an eye on, looked for references in all the magazines. You’re not really a celebrity watcher, but for the most part, Stark is different from an actor or sports guy. In your opinion, for a man with such innovative intelligence, his playboy lifestyle is as much of a waste of his talents as designing weapons. He’s done with the latter, but seems to be having trouble dropping the former.
Checking your watch, you sigh. It’s already five, and you need a shower. As you turn toward the stairs that lead up to the door to your apartment, you catch another glimpse of yourself in the mirror. God, you need a haircut.
“The only thing Tony Stark is going to do when he sees you is wonder who let in the mousy wallflower,” you groan. You never were a flashy, ‘draw all eyes when you walk in the door’ kind of girl, even though you do have a flair for picking clothes that accentuate your build. Still, the mirror is telling some home truths that you don’t appreciate right now, so you flip it off, holding your hand in that position as you walk up the stairs and tap out your code for the door.
***
An hour and a half later, and you’re in a push-up bra, matching panties, and a complete freak-out spiral. You have three dresses to choose from, and none of them are right, and you don’t have time to do anything else than pick one. You’re about to do the thing where you hang them in three different places in your room and spin around with your eyes shut till you stop with your finger pointed out, when you hear the front door opening.
It can only be one person, but you still grab your oversized white bathrobe and pull it on before you call out to her.
“Help, I am a damsel in serious distress. De-stress me, Natasha!”
“You need more friends if I’m who you would turn to for that,” Natasha says. She’s wearing a tight gray dress that, while stunning, doesn’t look like a party frock at all.
“Wait, is there a party? Because that is NOT what you of all people would wear to one. This is not a ‘you’ party dress. Particularly not if you’re… what did you call it? Trying to ‘sex kitten’ Tony Stark!” you protest, crossing your arms against the thick terry cloth of your robe.
“Settle,” Natasha says, but her lips curl up into a kind of a secret smile. “The party’s later, and I have to go in early. My boss wanted to talk to you a little bit beforehand.”
You back up and fall back onto your bed. “No, no, no, you’ve told me about your boss. He’s badass and terrifying.” Your tone turns whiny, then resolute. “I have stuff to do, Nat! I am reneging, right here, right now.”
Even as you say the words, your inner fangirl screams at you. No way do you want to miss the chance to be in the same room as Tony Stark, even if it means you have to withstand being glared at by Nat’s one-eyed scary spy boss.
“No, you’re not. Because I need you, and you will never forgive yourself.” Natasha is, as always, completely self-assured in the face of your frantic protestations. You’ll never forget the crazy way the two of you met, when she’d ducked into your store and frowned, confused, when she’d seen the empty racks for what had used to be a clothing store. After taking in her tight pleather fighting outfit, you’d thought fast, taking off your white hooded sweatshirt and tossing it to her. Natasha had put it on right away and you’d sat on the receptionist’s desk you were setting up, pulling open a folder and leaning over as if to present a proposal to a person sitting at the desk. She’d vaulted over the desk in a truly spectacular move, seating herself and zipping up the sweatshirt just in time.
The door had opened seconds later, revealing a tall, burly, terrifying-looking man in tradesmen’s clothing. “We’re closed!” you’d called out, and he’d grunted, looking around a few seconds before leaving.
“What about this one?” Nat says, from deep inside your closet. She emerges with a red dress that you’d bought once on a deep discount and then hidden in the closet, too embarrassed to picture yourself ever actually wearing it in public. It’s skin-tight, and the neckline/straps make up a bold X that crosses your chest in a brighter red than the rest of the fabric. Under the X is a second stylized X that stretches up to make a diamond gap between the two. The cut-out gives a daring glimpse of the lower curves of your breasts before the second X continues down to hug your hips. The damned thing continues its ‘high fashion’ nonsense in an angled cut just below your knees, except for where it slices up into a slit on your left leg, making a third, smaller X.
“I can’t wear a bra with that, Nat!” you hiss, even as you take the hanger and look at it. “Not to mention the fact that it’s literally a triple-X dress!”
“Just tell your inner self you’re living the dream?”
“I can’t believe I ever told you about having a crush on him. You know I’ll never trust you with anything ever again?” you gripe.
“Put on the dress, I don’t want to be late.”
It’s Stark’s favorite color, and actually fits perfectly. After you touch up your makeup to make it a bit more aggressive, with red lipstick that matches the dress (the one concession you’d made to someday choosing to wear it. The color’s been taunting you in your makeup bag since you’d come home with the damned thing), you’re actually feeling like a confident, capable person.
“That’s right,” Natasha says, coming up behind you and making eye contact with you in the mirror. “Put on a persona, if you have to. The one I chose, okay, yes, sex kitten, but-- and don’t laugh,” she sighs. “I’ve been playing it so straight, Cat. I thought sure he’d break, but it’s almost like he can tell that I know it’s innuendo? And by now it’s a game of chicken, and the man is too stubborn to lose. He’ll never back down.”
You can’t help the little smile of pride in the idea that the man you’ve been crushing on for so long can hold up against an onslaught like that, even though you haven’t ever met Tony Stark. Natasha is painfully gorgeous.
“So, what? You need me to be the Cat to your kitten?” you tease.
“Actually, yes.”
“Okay, I’ll wear this, but I’m not comfortable with the message the top… everything this dress is sending, so...” you say, and head over to the closet. On the way, you notice how you’re walking with more sway to your hips, like you can’t help yourself. You definitely feel like someone else, someone more bold, maybe? It’ll crumble completely if you were faced with the man himself, not that you probably will. Even with your assets on display like this, you’re still you, shy but tenacious, a ‘watch and learn’ kind of girl. Basically the opposite of his type. After years of spending time with every kind of woman, all of whom are begging for his attention, Stark will probably look past you like you’re not even there.
In the closet you find the long rectangular gold scarf/shawl your aunt had given you for Christmas what feels like fifty years ago. It’s still new in its rolled up package, and when you pull it out, you realize that its crinkled texture hides the folds perfectly. With the shawl wrapped around your shoulders in just the right way, the dress doesn’t look anywhere near as indecent as it did without. You look at yourself in the mirror one last time as you slip on your shoes, and the whole ‘sexy dress, demure shawl’ thing almost seems like a metaphor for the ‘hidden depths’ your family always joked that you have.
They wouldn’t appreciate these particular ‘depths,’ though. The only thing keeping you going is the fact that you look very different from your normal self. If everything crashes and burns, you can just pretend it wasn’t you, right?
“Okay, I’m convinced. Give him one glimpse of what’s under there and he’ll definitely be distracted,” Natasha says with a smirk.
“I bet he won’t even look in my direction,” you tell her as the two of you walk down the stairs and onto the store floor. It is, of course, devoid of the clothes racks that had been there when Natasha had barged into her accidentally unlocked door, that day. Now, eighteen months later, there’s hardly any customer-facing space at all, with double-high cube shelving separating the small lobby area from your colleagues’ workspaces. It’s cozy, but your company does decent business, and you’re proud of how far it’s come since then.
“I’ll take that bet,” Natasha says, pushing the door open with her ass and smiling a secret, knowing smile. “If he talks to you within the first half hour, you owe me my favorite take-out.”
The place in question is basically impossible to park at, meaning if you lose, you’ll have to park fifteen minutes away to pick up the food. However, you picture the kinds of parties you’ve seen in magazines, with beautiful people all crammed together in a darkened room, and can’t help but feel confident. You don’t have the money, the attitude, or the clout to draw the attention of someone like Tony Stark.
“You’re on.”
***
When you get to a nondescript office building and park, Nat assures you that there’ll be a car coming to pick you up and waves you into the building. Once you’re inside, you see a man standing with his back to you, his long black trench coat doing all the work for him.
“Nice to finally meet you, Catriona,” he says, still faced away. “Or should I call you Cat?”
“Feeling more like the mouse today,” you say, disconcerted that he knows your 'secret identity.'
“Don’t worry, you’re not prey. Not for me, anyway. Natasha tells me you were up to do her a favor,” he says, finally turning. He’s wearing an actual eye patch, and the front of him is every bit as badass-intimidating as the back of his black boots and coat had implied.
“You know technically, she owes me,” you point out. “And, is this a safe house? Wait-- don’t tell me anything top secret. I like my life. I don’t want to be in the witness protection program.”
You’re babbling, which is the other side of your extreme lock-up, ‘freeze and hope no one notices you’ coping mechanism.
“Nothing we’re asking you to do is at witness protection level. Just be beautiful, enigmatic, and smart.”
You can feel a blush rising on your face. “Uh, maybe I have the wrong building?”
“You think I’d let you in here if I didn’t know everything there is to know about you?”
Your stomach drops. “Can we start over? We can do the introduction part, and then I can find the floor I’m actually supposed to be on, and we can forget this ever--”
“Cat…” the man says, adding more gravitas to the name than you have in the decade-plus you’ve used it. “--did you know for the first few months, I thought you were an actual feline? You’ve been good for Natasha. Grounded her in the real world. She made me promise not to scare the shit out of you, and I think I’ve failed,” the man says. “My name is Nick Fury. I run an organization called SHIELD. We’ve had our eye on Stark for a while, mostly because we’d like to make sure he doesn’t implode and take half of the security of the country with him. We’re coming up on a delicate time, and I need to know I can count on you.”
You are starting to feel a little woozy. Fury can tell, you think, because he walks over, passes you to head into an alcove by the door, and comes out with a small chair. Even though you’re standing in what amounts to a darkened lobby, he places it right in the middle and gestures. You sit, because the alternative is to try to run out of here in heels, and if you did that, Natasha would make fun of you until the end of time. It’s really unfair of her, honestly.
“The bottom line, young lady, is that Stark’s a ladies' man, but his tastes are changing. Time was, he would have gone all in on someone like the character Natasha’s currently playing, but now, who knows?” Fury sighs. “Making his PA the CEO was actually one of the most brilliant ideas the man’s had since Afghanistan. But not if they’re going to be involved. That was what Natasha was supposed to deflect him from.”
“Wait,” you say, straightening up in the chair. “I’m just going to a party. I get to look pretty and be ignored by my celebrity crush. That’s it.” You’re shaking. Everything has escalated far more quickly than you ever could have expected, and you don’t even think taxis know about the building you’re currently freaking out in. You feel trapped, even though your faith in Natasha is strong enough that you don’t feel in any physical danger.
“Of course,” Fury says expansively. “I’m just letting you know what’s at stake.”
He’s trying to use your innate sense of responsibility to influence you, and while you’re offended, you’re also kind of impressed.
“I see why you’re the boss, anyway,” you mutter. Then, louder, you add, “But you’re not my boss. I’m self-employed. And not in the ‘boss babe’ kind of way.”
“I can respect that,” Fury says. He spins around to start pacing, heading away from you, before turning around and coming halfway back to stop and look at you. “I am not asking you to do anything you wouldn’t already feel comfortable doing.”
“That is such a line,” you blurt out, twisting your hands in your lap. “What if I tell you I’m not comfortable holding this conversation, or knowing the things you’ve already told me?”
“That is manifestly obvious. It’s also what makes you perfect for the thing I’m asking you to do.”
“What are you asking me to do?” you demand, the words coming out in a choked gasp. You’re so out of your element you can barely breathe, and the worst part is, Fury's instincts are spot on. You feel a sense of responsibility, not just to Natasha, but to Stark. He's the sort of person who shows up in the news as often for a dazzling tech breakthrough as for a catastrophic break-up... or a kidnapping.
“Be yourself. In the process, give Tony Stark someone intriguing to focus on. Someone who isn’t his CEO. Think of it as helping him diversify.”
“If I called you a pimp right now, would you throw me out?” you ask, standing up and squaring your shoulders. You’ve always lashed out when cornered.
Fury laughs. “Stop trying to chew off your own leg and learn to adapt to the shackle. For all we know, this could just be for tonight.”
Until that moment, it hadn’t even occurred to you that it wouldn’t just be for tonight. You watch as Nick Fury casually checks his watch.
“Guests are starting to arrive. I’ve ordered a driver for you. The make and model of the car along with your attire should be enough to get you admitted, and if not, Agent Romanoff will. It’s been a pleasure.”
He holds his hand out to shake yours for the first time that night, and when you take it, your own is shaking.
“Chill. It’s not an assassination,” Fury tells you, squeezing your hand before letting go.
“Like you’d tell me it was at Employee Orientation anyway,” you grumble.
His laughter follows you out the door, where you find a sleek black car that’s probably worth just about as much as your salary for a year.
“Out of the frying pan and down the rabbit hole, I guess,” you sigh, opening the door and climbing inside.