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“Guess Hawkboy and Ninjagirl won’t miss out on the fun after all. Yay for them.”
“Tony—”
“Nuh uh.” Tony pointed at Steve as they walked down the hall. “You don’t get to be mature at me when I’m sulking in my own house.”
“It’s just a temporary delay on the training exercises, Tony,” Bruce reminded him. “Between the weather, and the fact that Clint, Natasha, and Thor couldn’t be here—”
“—Which is a cruel irony. Because if Thor were here, he could fix this.” Tony gestured emphatically to the rain running in rivulets down window. “And, no, before you say it: I do not need to be reminded of what he said about ‘changing weather patterns merely to suit a friend’s passing whim.’”
Steve and Bruce exchanged longsuffering glances.
Tony scowled. “Fine, fine. No one can throw a proper tantrum in the face of such heartlessly tranquil indifference.” He removed his damp jacket and flung it in the general direction of a nearby coat rack. “JARVIS, how doth my kingdom fare?”
“Grieved by your absence, as always, Sir.”
“The whole city weeps,” Tony agreed, waving airily at the rain sliding in sheets over the city.
“There is one situation you may wish to be aware of, Sir.”
“A Situation, oh goody. I’m all revved and ready for dealing with a Situation. Spill.”
“Agent Romanov has returned earlier than expected, and is currently in the common room on this level. I do not believe she wishes to be disturbed.”
That brought all of them to a halt. They had, in fact, all three been headed towards the common room by default. Bruce and Steve frowned, as confused by JARVIS’ stilted non sequitur as Tony was.
“This is the team’s level,” Tony said, crossing his arms. “The official movie night-and-pizza level. The Comfy Couches and Junk Food in the Cupboards level.”
“I am aware, Sir.”
Tony narrowed his eyes. “Then what’s the ninja doing calling dibs?”
“Sir,” JARVIS hesitated, although it was only for the space of a second, “she did not specifically request that I prevent others from entering, but I believe Agent Romanov is feeling under the weather.”
“Funny—funny, JARVIS. But I definitely don’t remember programming you to deliver puns without any flair. No flair whatsoever, JARVIS.”
“She’s sick?” Steve interjected over the sound of Tony’s wit. “JARVIS, how bad is it?”
“Nothing to be alarmed by, Captain. Her temperature is only slightly elevated, and she has assured me in no uncertain terms that she is ‘fine.’”
“Oh, God,’” Tony groaned, “she’s really ill, isn’t she? It’s got to be some kind of Death Flu to take down Romanov.”
Bruce was already heading for the common room. “I’m going to go check on her.”
“He says as he walks calmly to his death,” Tony muttered, but he was already stalking along after Bruce and Steve, warning them all the way. “I’m pretty sure this is a Clint kind of situation. Clint owns the Worst Case Scenario: Black Widow Edition manual. So we should definitely call Clint on this one, guys.” He pulled out his phone. “I’m going to text him right now. So SHIELD’s got him dodging bullets in some hellhole somewhere—so what? We’re about to be dodging bullets. I mean, I’m glad you two are all gung-ho for this mission, but personally I’m just fine not knowing what Romanov is like when she’s sick, so I’ll just hang back…here.”
Tony came to standstill in the doorway to the living room, because what he saw was not at all what he’d expected. Really, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected, apart from the distinct possibility of seeing his own blood splattered on the wall before the evening was through.
But he definitely hadn’t expected this. This version of the cool, calm, and collected Natasha Romanov: the one clad in a too-large t-shirt and pajama pants, curled up on the sofa with her face pressed into the couch cushions and her hair a frizzy red halo in the lamplight.
“Wow. Guess she really is down for the count.”
She stirred at Tony’s words, but it was just that: a slight twitch. Not a startle. Not a flurry of kung fu moves. Not a knife aimed at his jugular.
“Huh,” Tony said.
Steve’s face had gone all shades of soft and disarmed as he stepped closer to the couch, carefully putting a hand on her shoulder. “Natasha?”
She shifted again, rolling onto her side, hair falling in her face. A muted huff of air escaped her parted lips—and then, woozily: “St’ve? Thought you were…gone. Training t’day…”
“It got cancelled—it’s not important. Tell you about it later.” Steve leaned closer. “You alright?”
“Sure, sure…” She blinked slowly, looking beyond Steve and noticing Bruce and Tony hovering in the background without appearing to be particularly surprised or concerned.
“Yeah, see, but it’s just that you look like death warmed over, so we figured we’d ask,” Tony said, warily coming closer to peer down at her, “you know, in case you actually are dying.”
“Just a cold,” she said, and sniffled. Actually sniffled.
There was a box of tissues on the side table, knocked over on its side. Steve righted it and took one from it to hand to her.
Who knew the Black Widow sneezed like a mouse?
“Thanks,” she said, and did a second mouse-sneeze into the Kleenex. “Didn’t mean to sleep here. Should go...” But she didn’t make a move to follow through on the thought.
Tony didn’t comment on it, despite it being the sort of thing he would normally comment upon without any qualms. Contrary to popular belief, he could do niceness for the sake of being nice.
Also, a drowsy and non-lethal Natasha was far more entertaining than any reality television.
“Sore throat?” Bruce asked unnecessarily, because they’d all noticed the gravelly quality of her voice.
She nodded, just a dip of her chin.
“How about I go make you some tea, then?” Bruce headed for the kitchen.
Steve eyed her bare feet, and the way her whole body was curved in a “U” as she huddled for warmth, and added, “I’ll go find you a blanket.”
Which left Tony standing there like a clod. His phone buzzed and he dug it out to read Clint’s ominous one-liner:
watch her w/cough medcn :S
Before Tony could thank him for that crystal-clear memo, a second text came in:
gets loopy on cold stuff, srsly loopy. b nice 2 her. NICE.
Tony huffed in indignation, glanced at Natasha, who was trying to curl up into an even tighter ball of misery, and texted back:
The Princess is in good hands.
To which Clint only LOLed and then added a menacing devil emote, whatever that bipolar combination of amusement and threat meant.
Tony sent him a heart with a Cupid’s arrow through it, and pocketed his phone.
Steve returned, then, his arms full to overflowing with fluffy fleece-lined blankets that Tony hadn’t even realized he owned, and a pair of men’s slippers that were approximately ten sizes too large for Natasha’s feet.
“Tony, help me sit her up—use some of those pillows.”
Tony only cringed for a moment (he didn’t do sickrooms) before obeying (because Captain America, and Natasha’s rather adorable mouse-sneezes, and also possibly a little bit because of Clint and the devil emote).
He shuffled a couple of pillows around to one end of the couch and tapped Natasha’s shoulder. “Romanov?”
Steve didn’t actually roll his eyes as he shouldered Tony out of the way.
Natasha stared blearily at Steve as he helped to ease her back into a semi-reclined position against the pillows. She stared some more at him as he covered her in several layers of blankets and tucked the edges around her.
Tony planted the slippers on her feet and congratulated himself.
“You’re being nice,” she accused looking down at Tony with a hint of the familiarly lethal Natasha they all knew and loved.
Tony straightened himself self-righteously. “That’s because I happen to be nice.”
“Bruce is nice,” she mumbled, “Steve’s nice.
“He’s trying, Nat,” Steve said, and (being Steve, and being “nice”) he somehow managed to make it sound like he didn’t intend to be a condescending jerk.
Any witty comeback was belayed by Bruce’s return with a package of saltine crackers, a bottle of Tylenol, and a steaming cup of something that smelled vaguely of licorice and honey. He set his haul down on the side table.
Tony watched with accruing wonder as Natasha submitted to being told to eat this, and take these pills, and let the tea cool for a few minutes...
She sneezed some more, and rubbed absently at her temples, and when Bruce finally handed her the mug she curled her fingers around it and drew it close, inhaling the steam and regarding them through half-lidded, bloodshot eyes. “Thanks,” she croaked, including all three of them in her glance.
Steve patted her knee. “Being sick’s awful.”
She sniffled in agreement, and Tony scooted the box of Kleenex so it was more conveniently located.
When Steve and Bruce settled onto neighboring pieces of furniture, Tony almost slipped out. Almost. But he wasn’t a coward—and being sick was awful, and he really could do nice. He’d prove it, so there.
So he sat in an overstuffed chair and said graciously with a nod towards the flat panel TV on the wall: “Your pick, sicko.”
Natasha arched an eyebrow at him, but the I-could-kill-you gleam was too sleepy to be truly threatening. The red nose and the mussed hair didn’t exactly add to the intimidation factor, either.
Really, all told, she was an adorable sicko, for someone making disgusting congested noises, and continually wiping at her nose.
“HGTV,” Natasha said, after a thoughtful pause.
Tony blinked. “Come again?”
“HGTV,” she repeated stubbornly. “That’s what I want to watch.”
“Certainly, Agent Romanov,” JARVIS intervened soothingly, and the TV flicked on to the correct channel.
The program was House Hunters: International, and Natasha grumbled at the couple’s poor tastes in Spanish villas, Bruce murmured his agreement at the impracticality of the floor layouts, and Steve was visibly boggled by the prices that were rattled off as being “within budget.”
“Stupid kitchen,” Natasha said, as the couple decided on the “Villa with a View.” She was scowling in annoyance. “It’s a stupid house. Impractical.”
“So,” Tony said casually, “you take this seriously.”
She lobbed a pillow at his head and settled back with arms crossed for the next round of house hunting.
She fell asleep before House #2, and Steve—compulsive mother hen that he was—got up to make sure the sick little ninja was all tucked in, safe and sound.
They all stuck around for some inexplicable reason, and Tony couldn’t help a snort of amusement at the undignified sound of Agent Natasha Romanov actually doing the whole opened-mouth snore-wheezing thing.
When the family of six chose the knotty pine cabin with the kitschiest fireplaces in existence, Tony demanded aloud: “Seriously. Seriously? What kind of lunatic—”
Bruce shushed him at that point, and Steve cast him an amused look, and Tony crossed his arms, with dignity, refraining from further outrage (but they were certifiable lunatics).
And Natasha snored on, face mashed against the pillow and tangle of red curls falling in her face.