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Natasha had been planning a quiet night in. Sweatpants, ice cream, some documentary Bobbi reccomended her.
So, of course, she wasn't surprised at all when there was a knock on the door. There was always something. She's never met a less competent group of supposed geniuses and agents.
She opened it just far enough to glare out. “What?”
Tony stood there on the threshold, wild-eyed, hair sticking up in a million different angles. Boxes were stacked to his chin, a measuring tape coiled around his wrist like a bracelet. Frankly, he looked like he'd just lost a fight with a modeler.
“Okay,” he started breathlessly, already pushing inside, “so before you get upset—”
“You're interrupting my night off, I’m already upset.”
“—just remember you’ve been living here for free for like four years.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow.
"Take you shirt off?"
Natasha blinked once. Slowly. The way a cat blinks at a human who has deeply disappointed it. “…No.”
Tony pushed past her anyways, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel. A box tumbled off the top of the stack, hit the floor, and skidded under her bed. He didn’t notice. Or care.
“Not like that,” he clarified, waving a hand. “I mean— yes like that, technically, but in a totally clinical, non-weird way. Scientific. Very scientific. I’m basically a doctor. Ish. You're too young for me.”
"You get five seconds to explain why you want me to strip."
He dumped the boxes on her bed. “Because Peter is… Peter,” Tony said, pacing immediately, hands flapping as he tried to untangle the measuring tape wrapped around his wrist. “And he keeps wearing his binder for too long and the suit compresses weird on top of it which isn’t helping, and I— well— I can fix it. I can fix anything, Nat, you know that. But I need data. Data requires testing. Testing requires—” He gestured at her torso. “Boobs.”
She stared at him. Just stared.
“That’s your pitch?”
He winced. “It sounded better in my head.”
“Mhm.”
“I also got you candy,” he added quickly.
She sighed, long-suffering. “Fine. Give me the damn box.”
Tony perked up instantly, shoving one at her. As she turned away, tugging off her shirt, he whipped around so fast he almost tripped over his own feet.
“I’m not looking!” he yelled at her wall. “Hands over my eyes, see? Your privacys safe with me."
Natasha rolled her eyes and put on the first binder in the pile. It was snug, but not awful. She stretched a bit, testing for pinch points, then turned around.
“Okay,” she announced. “You can stop pretending you have boundaries now.”
Tony spun so fast he nearly dropped the clipboard. “Great. How’s it feel? Tight? Too tight? Not tight enough? Chafing? Scratchy? Suffocating? Emotionally taxing?”
“Tony,” she said, “it’s a piece of fabric, not a philosophical crisis.”
“Well it can be both,” he muttered, already circling her like he was scanning a new suit prototype. “Lift your arms? No— wait— put them down. Actually, lift them. Hm.”
She humored him, arms up. “You owe me dinner after this, by the way.”
“Of course. Obviously. Anything. What do you want? I’ll order it now. Sushi? Thai? Something with noodles?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You’re babbling.”
“I’m stressed!”
“You’re always stressed.”
He wrinkled his nose. “I know.”
She shifted her shoulders. “This one’s a little stiff on the ribs.”
He scribbled something furiously. “Okay. Next one.”
She changed again—he turned around again, hands clamped over his eyes like she was Medusa—and they repeated the cycle. Try. Evaluate. Tony pacing, muttering calculations. Natasha making deadpan comments to keep herself sane.
Binder number five. “This one feels like getting hugged by an aggressive grandmother.”
Tony nodded seriously. “So that’s a no.”
Number nine. “If I exhale too hard, I might die.”
“No death binders,” he agreed, after a thoughtful pause. “Got it.”
Eleven. “Tony, are you sure these aren’t shapewear ads you fell for?”
“Shut up and answer the damn questions,” Tony mumbled, wrapping the measuring ribbon around his arm again.
Three more binders later, Natasha planted her hands on her hips. “Alright. This one. This one’s actually good.”
Tony lit up like a Christmas tree. “Really?? Scale of one to ten?”
“Eight and a half,” she said. “Maybe nine once it breaks in.”
He scribbled even faster. “Perfect. I should be able to reverse-engineer something adjustable. And safe. And more breathable. And the suit modifications will help—oh! And if I adjust the—”
"Tony." She put a hand on his shoulder. “Tony, breathe.”
He blinked up at her, wild-eyed. “If he hurts himself wearing one of these things wrong again I will actually combust, Natasha.”
“I know,” she said. “You’re a good… whatever you are to him.”
He looked away, ears going red. “Shut up.”
She smirked. “Dinner? For my troubles.”
He made a face. “Yeah, yeah. Already agreed to that. What do you want?”
“Steak,” she said. “Somewhere expensive.”
“Of course you do.”
“And dessert.”
“Natasha.” Tony pouts.
“You owe me. You saw me half-naked for science.”