In the dining room, Hannah glanced between James and Natasha, her eyes flicking from the oversized shirt to his composed expression.
James could almost hear Cortana's dry tone in his head.
[Advisory: Social misunderstanding imminent.]
He sighed inwardly. "Here we go again," he muttered, reaching for the coffee.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
James finished his breakfast and hurriedly left with the note written by Natasha. The gazes of his family were too much for him to bear, so he had no choice but to leave as fast as he could and go clothes shopping. He did not read what was written on the note and drove to a large shopping mall nearby.
After parking the car, James took the elevator upstairs and went to the floor filled with ladies clothing outlets. It was said that women's money was the easiest to earn, and every mall had a floor dedicated to them. Only then did he look at the note.
The size of her underwear.
He frowned. It was a big size. He'd expected that, but the note also listed a specific brand. 'Great.' He shook his head, exhaling slowly through his nose, and began his humiliating search.
[Observation: Elevated heart rate, you seem to be getting nervous.]
"Yeah," he muttered. "Because I'm a grown man hunting lingerie in public, Cortana."
[Statistically uncommon male behavior pattern. Ninety-four percent of male shoppers outsource this task.]
"Gotcha. Next time, I'll recruit Stark's assistant for field support."
A man clutching a pink note on a floor filled with women's outlet stores—he might as well have been holding a live grenade. Every few steps, and another curious glance. Every mirror he passed reflected a version of himself trying to look casual and failing miserably.
He was grateful Mindy hadn't insisted on tagging along. The last thing he needed was his kid sister walking into this side of himself and assuming he'd gone insane.
Finally, he spotted the store. The brand was high-end, subtle lettering in gold across the display window. Inside, there were only a handful of early shoppers—two women comparing laces against their skin and another testing the elasticity of a strap. All three paused when James entered.
He caught it immediately—the brief silence, the polite attempt not to stare. He was used to attention, but not this kind.
The sales assistants, all women, perked up. Handsome, alone, well-dressed: to them, he was either a romance or a scandal waiting to happen.
"Please help me get a set of underwear in this size," James said, handing over the note like it was evidence from a crime scene.
"Of course, sir." The assistant's smile brightened. "There aren't many men willing to buy intimate underwear for their girlfriends these days. That's very sweet."
He bit back a sigh. What was he supposed to say?—'My colleague lost everything on a mission; this is part of damage control?'
"If you could please just get me a set," he said instead, keeping his tone neutral.
"Understood. What style would you like? This season's design is very… captivating."
She held up a set that looked more like it belonged in a weapons lab than a drawer—two thin straps of silk and something that could hardly be called giving coverage.
The corners of James's mouth twitched. If he bought that, Natasha would kill him, and Hannah would murder him after. "Something more conservative," he said tightly.
The assistant blinked, surprised. "Conservative… right." She gave him a look halfway between pity and curiosity before disappearing behind a rack.
James rubbed his temple. He could almost hear Stark's laughter echoing in his head.
"Next time, I'm delegating this entire mission to him," he muttered. "He probably has an entire department for lingerie logistics."
Cortana just had to quip in at that moment. [Recommendation acknowledged. Suggest hiring a human-resources assistant for such a task.]
"Yeah. First, let me survive this one."
He thought briefly about how Tony handled women—fast, detached, and efficient. Stark never had to deal with this nonsense. Every model, every reporter—handled by Pepper Potts before breakfast. Tony lived like a tycoon. James, meanwhile, was out here buying underwear like a confused buffoon.
The assistant returned with a modest set—practical fabric, with neutral color. He nodded in relief, handed over his card, and waited impatiently as she wrapped it. The glossy bag, however, carried a very distinct brand logo.
He froze. There was no way he could walk around holding that. Not for long.
He left the store quickly, trying not to meet anyone's eyes. A man clutching a lingerie bag on a women's floor was a public anomaly.
As he passed another boutique, he noticed a group of shoppers glance at him, whispering. His nerves cracking. "Perfect," he muttered. "Exactly the kind of gossip I didn't want."
He still needed to buy a coat.
Inside the next shop, a different clerk spotted the bag immediately. "Sir, that's a wonderful brand! Are you looking for something to match? Maybe something for—"
"Stop," James interrupted, voice edged. "Just… grab any coat that fits the size on this note. Neutral color. No exaggerated or risque design"
Her smile faltered. "Right away sir."
While she scurried off, James sighed. The absurdity of it all—the secret agent buying clothes for a woman who could kill him with a paperclip. Maybe the real mission was surviving this embarrassment.
The coat arrived. He paid without haggling and shoved the new bag over the first one, concealing the logo. A slight improvement. Then came the final step: shoes.
He reached the footwear section, hoping—praying—for a transaction free of commentary.
"Sir," the clerk began politely, "it's summer, and if your girlfriend has delicate feet, we recommend our latest open-toe—"
James cut him off, voice flat and serious. "Pick any pair in this size. A normal one. Then ring me up."
The clerk blinked at the tone—the kind that made soldiers stand straighter—and scrambled to comply. Within seconds, the transaction was done.
As James exited, he exhaled slowly. His pulse finally eased. [Stress levels are decreasing, Congrats on your successful shopping] Cortana noted.
"Never again," he muttered. "If this happens twice, I'm officially applying for Stark-level staff privileges."
Cortana gaved a [...] text. [Assessment: Overreaction. Mission success probability: 100 percent. Social reputation damage: 67 percent.]
"Yeah-yeah," he said, smirking despite himself, "feels about right."
He shoved the bags into the passenger seat and collapsed into the driver's side, finally breathing like a free man. The hour he'd spent under fluorescent lights and judgmental stares had drained more energy than any firefight.
"Cortana, remind me to earn enough to outsource humiliation next time."
[Directive logged. Long-term goal: acquisition of personal assistant, public-relations cover identity, and possibly a stylist.]
"Perfect. The dream of every man."
As the car pulled out of the garage, he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror—a calm exterior, filled with internal chaos. Somewhere out there, Tony Stark was probably on his fifth espresso, delegating entire empires through voice command.
James drove in silence for a while, the city slipping by in polished reflections. The early sunlight flashed across the steering wheel, the world looking deceptively simple for a man who had just wrestled alien tech and a billionaire's ego in the same week.
By the time he reached home, he'd regained composure.
He parked quietly and stepped inside. The house was peaceful again—morning light filtering through the blinds, faint chatter from the kitchen.
Natasha Romanoff was asleep in the guest room. Sure enough, what a woman needed most after an operation gone sideways was rest. Her breathing was even, hair damp from the earlier shower, and body wrapped in the oversized shirt.
James set the shopping bags near her bed. He glanced once at the folded clothes, then at her resting form, and shook his head. She'd been through enough.
Still, he couldn't help the faint smirk. "You better appreciate this," he muttered softly.