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Harry slipped through the elevator doors quieter than usual, shoulders hunched under the oversized jacket Tony had shoved on him as soon as he walked in. The kid looked pale—paler than his usual “staying-up-too-late” shade—but he was still standing, still offering that crooked almost-smile when Tony raised a brow at him.
“You look like crap, Ozzy,” Tony said, trying for casual, ruffling his hair the way he always did.
Harry huffed, ducked away from the hand. “Yeah, love you too.”
But he didn’t meet Tony’s eyes.
That was the first red flag. The second was the way he leaned against the back of the couch, knuckles white where they gripped the fabric like he was grounding himself. Tony filed it away—he didn’t want to push, not when Norman was usually the reason Harry came in looking like he’d swallowed glass. If there was one thing he knew Harry hated, it was being hovered over. Besides, Tony figured Harry would bring it up himself eventually.
So he let him talk, let him flop down on the couch with his hood up. Tony half-watched whatever show he put on while keeping an eye on him out of the corner of his eye.
Harry's foot tapped, restless. His breathing hitched whenever he shifted in his seat.
When Tony got up to grab a drink, Harry got up, walking over to the cabinet where he knows Tony keeps a first aid kit.
He walked slowly, carefully. He crouched down—
And fell over.
The thud wasn’t loud, but it was enough. Tony spun around, bottle forgotten on the counter.
“Harry?”
The kid was crumpled on the floor, one hand still half-stretched toward the cabinet door, the other curled against his side. For one blinding second, Tony’s brain supplied every worst-case scenario in vivid color. Then he was moving.
“Hey—hey! Harry, no, no, no, come on—” He was kneeling beside him in a heartbeat, patting at Harry’s cheek with frantic hands, trying to figure out what the hell—
That’s when he saw it. The dark stain spreading under the hem of the hoodie, seeping through the jacket.
“Oh, for— you’ve got to be kidding me.” Tony eased him back against the wall, tugging fabric up and out of the way until the laceration revealed itself, ugly and red. Not deep enough to be life-threatening, thank god, but long and nasty enough to make Tony’s chest clench.
“I was gonna—” Harry mumbled, blinking up at him, words slurring. “I was gonna grab the kit when you… y’know… weren’t looking.”
"Not looking? Jesus, kid, you can't just do that!" Tony's voice cracked, sharper than he meant it to be. He was already cleaning the wound, trying to stop his hands from shaking long enough to actually patch the wound.
Harry flinched at the tone. “I didn’t—didn’t want you to freak out.”
And that hit harder than the blood ever could.
Tony froze, chest tightening. He softened his grip, brushing damp hair back from Harry’s forehead. “Hey. Hey, Ozzy. You don’t get it—I’m supposed to freak out. That’s the job description. You’re hurt, I freak. That’s how this works.”
Harry blinked, eyes glassy. “…That’s stupid.”
"Yeah, well, your dad isn't gonna do it," Tony muttered, voice low. Then he steadied his voice. “You don’t hide this stuff from me. Not this. You can hate my jokes, you can roll your eyes at me all you want, but you don’t bleed on my floor and tell me you’re fine. Capiche?”
"Capiche."
“Good. Well. You’re grounded. From… bleeding. Indefinitely.”