p • r • e • s • s • u • r • e

I Get it

Almost.

His hands were shaking before, but now, they're steady as ever.

Tony stands at the top of the staircase, eyeing the marble floor at the bottom.

Not gonna die, I'm not gonna die.

He's been standing here for at least ten minutes.

Why can't I do it?

He shakes his head.

I got this.

A leg juts out over the edge and he begins to shift his weight towards the ground, tentatively.

"Oh there you are. I was wondering if-Tony!"

He falls forward, tumbling down the stairs and landing in a heap at the bottom. Natasha runs down to meet him, shoes clacking loud on the hard steps. The engineer quivers a little, but pulls himself to stand on shaky legs and a hand braced against the railing.

"What the fuck was that?" She demands.

Tony flounders.

"Uh...I fell. The fuck is that?" He shoots back, pointing to an ugly hummingbird brooch on Nat's lapel.

"It's-I was a schoolteacher. Coulson sent me in. Can't tell you about it."

She takes off the stupid pin and shoves it in her purse.

"Tony, why did you do that?"

He gulps.

"I fell. It wasn't voluntary."

She narrows her eyes.

"Yes it was. You threw yourself down the stairs; you did not fall ."

Natasha grabs his wrist and he yelps.

"Shit...just-come on."

"Where?"

"Where the fuck do you think?"

"No, Nat, I don't need you to patch me up. I'm fine."

"You think the rest of the team will agree with you?"

He glares at her.

"Don't you fucking dare tell anyone."

"Then come. With. Me. You're not getting out of this, Stark."

He rolls his eyes and follows her.

"But disinfectant smells weird..." he complains.

"You smell weird."

They walk in silence to the main bathroom, where there's a fairly impressive first-aid kit, for when the avengers are too stupid or too prideful to go to the medbay. Usually it's either that or nothing, so he stocked the whole damn thing full of Hello Kitty bandaids. He deeply regrets that now.

"Nat, I'm okay."

"You're bleeding."

He frowns and looks in the mirror.

There's a swollen bump and a cut just above his forehead, and his wrist feels like it's burning at a million degrees Kelvin and aching something fierce. Nat squeezes past him with the kit in hand and points at a lounge chair.

"Sit," she orders.

He plops down in the chair and Nat dabs at his head wound with an alcohol wipe. He's taken back to when she was Natalie, putting concealer on his bruises.