Tony Stark stands by one principle: nothing is impossible. Nothing. Good questions lead to good answers, he just has to be clever about asking the right ones. And being clever is… he's not one to brag, but clever doesn't even begin to describe this. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the world's first teleportation machine!

In your face, Reed.

"Knock, knock."

Tony's screwdriver slips from his motor-oiled fingers – it rolls along the floor until a foot darts out of nowhere to step on it.

"Oh boy," he wipes his hands on the denim covering his butt. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit. Leave the door open, Nat, so I'll have witness if you slit my throat or something."

"Steve asks if you want to join him for dinner tonight. Says he has something to talk about."

"About what?"

"I don't know. About SHIELD and the Avengers? What do you normally talk about?"

"Huh?" He takes the screwdriver Natasha is offering, flinching just a wee bit as she pushes the handle lightly into his palm. "Dinner with the team, or just me alone?"

"Well, I'm not invited."

"… Right. Weird though." He points the screwdriver at her for emphasis. "I don't like to be singled out. It doesn't make me feel special. It makes me anxious. Maybe it's about leaving coffee grounds in the disposal. Can I pass?"

"You can tell him so yourself."

"I'm busy pushing the boundaries of science and technology, as per usual… so I must spend every millisecond of my life here, in this lab… with this thing that still won't cooperate…"

"What are you working on?"

Nat, among the bunch, has the most patience. Others would've moon danced out of the workshop and left him to his own devise. Or this is the Widow's tactic. Annoy him enough until he gives in to her every whim.

"This is a teleport machine. It's supposed to be, at least."

"How does it work?"

"Well," he wipes sweat off his brow, leaving smudges of oil on his forehead. "In theory, this chamber here," he points at the human-sized tank Natasha is leaning against, "analyses the structure of whatever item you intend to teleport. It does deep-scanning down to the quarks and electrons – I know, right? It's amazing, and that's not all. Once the formula is confirmed, the chamber there," he points at a second tank on the other side of the room, "reassembles nascent molecules into the original item. Boom."

"So… a 3D-printing fax machine?"

Boy, must she always suck the joy out of everything?

"It's a technology barely out of its diapers, but if I could make it work on larger, more complex stuff, Stark Industries would revolutionise the transportation and logistics industry!"

"Be careful what you wish for. Don't want to be slapped with antitrust violations now, do we?"

"Just because I'm thinking of expanding our horizon a bit, diversifying the portfolio so to speak –"

"A machine like this must've used tonnes of energy, energy that only your reactors can supply. I'm just stating the facts, Stark."

"You must be a lot of fun at parties, Romanoff."

"Speaking of which, maybe you'll want to get ready for your date with Rogers. If you turn him down, he'll sulk all day, and I'm not in the mood to spar with a sulky Captain America."

Tony immediately brightens up. "Aha, you are seeing Steve after this, huh? Tell him I'm sorry, I'll make it up to him later –"

"No deal." She waves nonchalantly and heads for the exit.

"Nat, come on –"

In his urge to chase after her, he trips over a wrench and falls face-first into the control panel linked to the prototype teleport machine. Lights and engines whir to life, and the very ground they are standing on begin to hum.

"… Get out of here, Nat." Tony launches himself to the panel, and hits buttons in frenzy. "Stop stopping! Go! Seal the damn door!"

"What's going on –"

"It's blowing up –"

Alarms blare in all direction, and steam shoots out from the pipework. With vision and air pressure severely compromised, Tony does the first thing that comes to mind – he lunges after Natasha, folds her into his chest and rolls them away to the farthest corner.

Not far enough. Not nearly.

After God knows how long –

"Nat?"

It's heavy. Nat's heavy, all muscly and… so much mass. He can't see, can't move. He's pinned to the ground under… everything. Rubble mostly, and a body –

"Nat? Nat, please." He tries to shake her awake, but finds his arms locked within Nat's embrace. Lady has a really firm hold on him. Very scary. He kicks around, hoping to dislodge some of the concrete piled over them, and thankfully, Jesus Christ, that works. The lighting's all out. The alarm has subsided. At least the HVAC control system is still running. He pushes himself up on one elbow, and pries himself off Nat. He flexing his toes, his knees, his neck… he's good. He's all good. Miraculously, he hasn't broken a single bone.

"Nat, wake up – holy fu –"

It's his own face he's staring at. His body on the floor, dust covered and still unconscious, and he –

"What the heck –" He runs his hands over his front, oh God, this is certainly not his chest –

He screams, short and sharp, and he sounds just like Natasha.