Spoilers/Timeline: IM3/set post IM3

A/N: Umm, I don't even know. I looked up and suddenly there were very vague notes on my phone and the next thing I knew I had an actual fic. No beta so any mistakes are mine. Many thanks to my twitter pals for the blind support.

Disclaimer: Iron Man doesn't belong to me. Title from Ashley Monroe's You Got Me.

She'd just assumed the Extremis would be the worst... anything... she'd ever encounter.

And it had been bad—sleepless nights for them both, panic attacks that came from nowhere other than the sun having warmed her a little too long seemingly sending her blood boiling—but they'd managed.

Made it through months of trials and tests, through finding a way to adjust back into normal, everyday life, and an engagement party that included an upended champagne tower.

(Because when did Tony ever do anything on a small scale?)

It was nothing compared to this.

This—an effing sprained ankle—was hell.

One she couldn't expect to escape for another four weeks.

He was driving her absolutely crazy.

First it was forcing her to sleep on the ground floor instead of in their bed so the crutches didn't irritate her arms more than necessary. Then it was the electronic messaging system that rearranged her meetings and nagged her about continuing physical therapy.

And don't even get her started on the way he followed her around when they were home. She couldn't even take her jacket off by herse—

"Here, I'll get it, honey."

He pries the half-full water glass out of her hand and starts for the kitchen.

So she couldn't even refill her drink now. She was going to lose her mind.

Ice clinks against the glass, echoes through the open space and it's too much. Leaning forward on her crutches, she narrows her eyes at him, blows a stray strand of hair off her forehead.

She can still handle that, thank you very much.

"If you keep this... hovering... up I'm going to need something much stronger than water."

"Oh, I'm plenty strong..." His back is still facing her, the line of his shoulders, tilt of his head, telling her he doesn't realize how serious she is. "Suit or no—"

He turns towards her and she sees the moment it registers, the glass shaking slightly in his hand, the tension flaring in his jaw.

"I'm not an invalid. I can still sit in on conference calls and take meetings and even turn the damn shower on. You're making me feel like I'm about to break."

"I... I'm..." He's at a loss for a moment and it's truly something to see. Words rarely fail him and it's half satisfying, half endearing to watch him fight to figure it out.

"Yes? Do I need to get a speech pathologist in here? I'm sure my physical therapist knows of someone..."

"I just don't want you to have to worry." It comes out in a rush, her full glass of water now abandoned on the counter as he moves towards where she stands, leaning against the low couch in the living room. "All you should have to focus on is getting better. I need you to feel better."

"And that won't happen if I'm not actually accomplishing something as well as doing isometrics and flexes and whatever other exercises Dr. Fox has me trying this week." Reaching out, she lets her fingers drift over his for a moment before resting on the crutches once more. "I can't keep feeling like I have two shadows."

"Sorry."

It's simultaneously the best and worst thing he can say. He just wants to help, she knows—sees—that, but short of creating a whole new leg for her (and she's not foolish enough to think he hasn't considered it) his hands are tied.

Pushing past her, he settles on the couch, eyes closed, mouth turned down. It's his version of pouting and she can't help it, it makes her laugh.

"You think it's funny?"

"No." Another laugh escapes and she presses her lips together as she rolls her eyes and hobbles forward, collapsing next to him.

"Good, because it's not."

"I know. Listen, I'll tell you if something's too much or if I need you to take a meeting for me when I have an appointment, ok?"

There's a slight pause, like he's weighing words once more, and then...

"Alright." His hand slides down her leg, stopping right above her bandage. It stays there for a moment and then his fingers are flexing against her skin, drawing small circles across her calf.

Closing her eyes, she exhales slowly, relaxes for the first time in days as he continues to massage her sore leg. His thumb brushes over the back of her knee, presses into her skin softly, sending a chill down her spine.

She turns carefully, pinning him against the arm of the sofa as her mouth crashes against his. He groans below her, his tongue warring with hers as he tries to pull her closer. He's at a loss though, trying to be gentle and not at the same time, so he settles for burying his hand in her hair, scraping his teeth down her throat as her fingers splay across the nape of his neck.

Pulling her back to him, he smiles as she moans against him, her teeth tugging at his bottom lip as she presses them even closer together. He's about to flip them when her hips rock against his, her foot kicking out in the process, knocking her crutches to the floor.

It breaks the mood and all they can do is laugh as she smooths his shirt, kisses his forehead, and sits up. She pulls in a shaky breath and leans against him as his arm falls over her shoulders, drawing her close.

"You..." His voice is low in her ear, legs bracketing hers as he settles behind her. "Can make dinner."

Grinning, she laces their fingers together and relaxes once more. "Deal."