Chapter Text
After Afghanistan, Tony pretty much never showed up at galas. Between being Iron Man, making toys for Stark Industries, and consulting for SHIELD, he didn’t have a lot of spare time on his hands. Plus, it turned out that high society was pretty boring when you were sober and not looking for a one-night stand.
There was one event, however, that he still forced himself to show up at-- the annual Maria Stark Foundation gala. He hated it, but he felt like he would be letting his mother down if he didn’t go. His relationship with his father might have been screwed up, but he had had nothing but love and admiration for Maria. He had created the foundation when she died, and every year since then he had attended the gala. Through hangovers, illnesses, and injuries, it had been the one thing he’d never allowed himself to skip.
So, when he started seeing flashing lights at the corners of his eyes half an hour before the 25th annual gala, he ignored it. He knew what it was-- an aura signaling an approaching migraine. It was nothing new for him, since he they had plagued him on and off for most of his adult life. He’d tried various medications, but none of them ever worked very well. His usual tactic was to take a few aspirin and hide out in a dark room until it passed. Obviously, that wasn’t an option this time.
It would be fine. He’d take a few aspirin now, spend an hour schmoozing at the gala, duck out early, and then commence the hiding. A totally fool proof plan.
***
When he got down to the garage several minutes later, Natasha was already waiting by the limo. She was wearing a floaty lavender dress, a full and slightly garish face of makeup, and perfectly coiffed blonde hair. It was unlikely anyone would place the giggly blonde on Tony Stark’s arm as the famous spy. Hiding in plain sight was a specialty of hers.
“Looking good, Tasha,” he called, striding forward with his trademark playboy smirk in place. Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, so he probably hadn’t pulled off the nonchalance as well as he thought.
“Everything alright, Stark?” she asked lightly, quirking one eyebrow up.
“Right as rain, sugarpie,” he responded, which, admittedly, was not his snappiest retort ever. It certainly did nothing to fix the skeptical look on Natasha’s face as Tony opened the car door for her and they both slid in. She chose not to comment, however, apparently accepting the fact that he didn’t want to talk about what was bothering him.
He was aware, of course, that he wouldn’t be able to hide that he had a migraine from her once it really hit him, which was bound to happen before the end of the night. He’d gotten good enough at hiding pain that he could fool a room of socialites, but he wasn’t sure anyone was a good enough actor to hide that kind of pain from the Black Widow. He certainly wasn’t, especially given that she knew his moods and tells well by that point.
Of course that still wasn’t going to stop him from using his tried and true method of dealing with personal issues, which was to ignore them until doing so became impossible. Letting Tasha figure it out on her own and then get pissed at him for not telling her was far easier than actually telling her. At least, it was easier at that particular moment, and Tony Stark was not known for thinking ahead. He was capable of it, but he tried not to make it a habit.
They sat in companionable silence during the drive to the hotel where the gala was being hosted. This was one of the things Tony really appreciated about Natasha; she was one of the few people with whom he could just be. He never felt like he had to fill the silence when he was with her.
The drive lasted some twenty minutes, throughout which the flashes from the aura continued. They were irritating, but he was grateful that they continued; the longer they lasted, the longer it would take for the pain to set in. His auras usually lasted just under an hour. Then he would have ten minutes or so before the migraine settled in. Best case scenario, he would have a long aura and a long intermediary period, and the migraine would only really start as he finished up at the gala. He chose not to entertain the possibility of any other scenarios.
The flashes were still happening when they arrived, thirty minutes after his aura had begun. Tony figured that was a pretty good sign. He took Natasha’s arm as they stepped out of the limo, and she leaned into him, giggling and posing for the cameras. For a moment, he idly wondered what would happen with the photos. It seemed unlikely that she would allow her picture to circulate the tabloids. He made a mental note to ask her about it later.
He hated to say it, but he was sort of comforted by her presence. Usually he would go to this type of event alone or with some random girl, and having a friend by his side was a welcome change. He had a feeling Tasha understood that, but there was no chance either of them would ever acknowledge it out loud.
Inside, the event was exactly like every other of it’s kind that Tony had ever been to: lavishly decorated, filled with people he had no interest in talking to, and mind-numbingly dull. The fact that events like these were sometimes referred to as “parties” was an insult to the word.
There were so many more worthwhile things he could have been doing. Watching grass die, for instance. Hitting his head with a board. Helping Dum-E “clean.” Listening to one of Fury’s speeches. Almost anything in the world sounded more pleasant than his current situation. C’est la vie.
“Come on, сахарный пирог, we’re not here to just stand in the corner and look pretty. Pep gave me a list of people you have to charm, and there’s no way I’m letting you out of it,” Natasha said, pulling him in the direction of a group assclowns- er, senators- one of whom he recognized as being on the Senate Committee for the Environment and Public Works.
He grumbled for a moment but brightened up and put on his trademark Stark smile as they got up to the group. Say what you will about Tony Stark, but he could shmooze with the best of them.
He was just finishing up his conversation with the assclown- er, senator- when he realized that the flashes had stopped. Immediately he checked his watch, praying that the conversation had been as long as it had felt. It was 8:07. Seven minutes after they had gotten there. Thirteen minutes before he had to give his speech, after which he was expected to stay for at least another half hour of socializing. Damn. This would not end well.
He was pretty sure that his face had betrayed nothing, and none of the party goers seemed to notice anything, but Natasha was giving him one of those alarmingly piercing stares. He simply shrugged in response and moved on to the next target.
It was a few minutes before he gave his speech that the pain hit, because apparently the universe had it out for him. It began as a dull, constant roar, but he knew it wouldn’t take long to build to an almighty crescendo. The bright lights of the gala were already beginning to burn, and the cacophony of a thousand exuberantly tipsy socialites seemed much louder than it had a few minutes ago. He kept a smile on his face, though, and made an effort to keep his posture relaxed.
He was probably going to have to leave even earlier than planned- maybe right after the speech- but that was far preferable to showing any of these people weakness. Frailty was far worse for both his stock and his dwindling dignity.
Pep would forgive him for not sweet-talking all the people on her list. It was far from the worst thing he had ever done. Very, very far. Besides, she had known him long enough to know about his migraines. On numerous occasions she had been the one rubbing his back while he threw up (something she only did when he was sick, not hung over) and rescheduling his meetings because he was too busy wanting to die (also something she only did when he was sick).
“Speech time,” Natasha whispered in his ear, shaking him out of his thoughts. She squeezed his hand gently before going to sit at their table. Everyone else was also taking their seats, and all of the lights were dimming across the room as the lights on the stage at the front were getting brighter. A man whose name Tony couldn't remember was standing at the podium to give an introduction. Tony was thankful at that moment that his hatred of these long, pointless speeches had led to him making sure that the ones at the gala were always as short as possible. All he had to do was last for a few minutes of introduction and speed through his little speech, and then he could go home to hide.
He didn't pay attention to anything the other man said until he heard the words "And now, here's the man of the hour, Mr. Tony Stark!"
People clapped politely as Tony took the podium. He knew he was gripping the edges just a little too hard, but he didn't think anyone besides Tasha might notice. He stared down at the index cards Pepper had made for him. Normally he would veer at least a little from her speech, but right now he just wanted to get it done with as little effort as possible, so he rushed through the cards verbatim, with a few bits cut out here and there for expediency.
“Thank you all so much for coming out here tonight, you’re helping me fund some really great causes!” The pain was still building in his head, the roar growing simultaneously sharper and more consuming. He ignored it, trying to focus on the words.
“The Maria Stark Foundation has raised 10 million dollars on tickets alone, and we hope with your contributions we can reach 50 million raised by the end of the night.” He had become acutely aware of all the liquids sloshing around inside his stomach. He was barely aware of what he was saying.
“Among the recent achievements of the Foundation is the considerable funding it gave to the efforts to rebuild New York.” It felt like someone was jamming an ice pick into his brain while he rode a tilt-a-whirl.
“For instance, the apartment of a young single mother was destroyed in the Chitauri attack, and the Maria Stark Foundation...” The cards were now blurring in front of his eyes. He could taste bile at the back of his mouth. But he had reached the last cue card.
“So thank you once again, and enjoy your evening.”
The gentle applauding of the audience was like rocks being pelted at his head, but he wasn’t paying attention. He was too busy fast walking off the stage and in the direction of the nearest bathroom. The nausea had become an angry roiling in his stomach, and it was sheer force of will keeping it down, which wouldn’t hold much longer.
A number of people tried to approach him as he exited the stage, but he brushed past them without even slowing. One woman was more persistent, and he had to actually shove her off. He knew from experience that they did not take kindly to having their five thousand dollar dresses ruined by stomach acid. Been there, done that.
He threw open the door of the men’s bathroom and dashed to the nearest stall. He was already gagging as he pushed open the stall door, and he practically projectile vomited as his knees slammed to the floor in front of the toilet.
Someone’s hand was on his back, rubbing soothing circles, but he barely registered it. There was too much sensory input, and it felt like his brain had stopped trying to process it. His world had dissolved into pain and nausea.
He barely had time to draw a breath before he was throwing up again. The retching motion caused the pain in his head to spike impossibly. Acid burned his throat.
He leaned his forehead against the cool porcelain, trying to ground himself. After several moments of deep breathing and not moving, the world began to clarify again. His head still hurt like hell and the nausea was still crawling at the back of his throat, but he had at least some awareness beyond that.
Someone-- probably the person who was rubbing his back-- had turned off the lights, for which he would be eternally grateful. The person was also murmuring softly in Russian, which gave a pretty good hint as to who they were.
“Think you’re done?” Natasha murmured eventually.
The nausea hadn’t dissipated completely, but his desire to be at home in his soft, cool bed far outweighed his need to continue hugging a toilet in a hotel bathroom. It took him a moment to decide whether nodding or whispering would cause less pain, and then another minute to actually figure out how to push the word out from his lips.
Nat pulled him up as gently as she could, although the change in altitude still made him want to scream and heave at the same time. The walk to the car felt like a hellish eternity, the hallway lights burning into his skull and searing through his brain.
The car itself was cool and completely dark, the windows blacked out and all the lights off. He might have whimpered in relief as he crawled inside. Natasha slid in next to him and pulled his head down onto her lap. Her fingers stroked through his hair, and he melted into her.
As soon as the car started moving, however, a new problem arose: the motion was redoubling his nausea. His stomach felt tight and overly full, despite having been recently emptied of most of its contents. He tried to ignore it at first. He pressed his face deeper into Natasha's belly, focusing on the feeling of her stroking his hair. Every inch of his body felt hypersensitive, but the delicate touch was still somehow comforting.
“Nat,” he whined after a few minutes, “gonna barf.”
With a speed impressive even for the Black Widow, she rolled him so that he was leaning off of the edge of her lap, and he found himself facing into an empty ice bucket. Thank God for Natasha Romanov.
He started retching almost immediately. She continued to rub his back gently as a rush of burning acid and mostly digested salmon made its way up his throat. There was one dish he would probably never be able to enjoy again. The puking continued until all that was left was stomach bile, and then even after that was expelled. By the time they had reached the Tower, all he could was dry heave.
Happy idled the car outside the door for a few minutes so that Tony could get his bearings. After several blessedly motionless moments, the nausea settled. Eventually he allowed Natasha to drag him out of the car and into the Tower.
He could barely support his own weight, still trembling and breathing hard from a combination of the pain in his head and the exertion of throwing up. Nat had to half-carry him up to the elevator, where he slumped against her with his head against her shoulder. She pet him gently and murmured unintelligible words in Russian. He may or may not have nuzzled her.
Once they got up to his suite all he wanted to do was crawl under the covers, but Natasha made him sit first so that she could undress him. He was of almost no help, but he meekly allowed her to do as she would.
When he was left in nothing but his boxers and undershirt, she finally, blessedly, allowed him to lie down. He snuggled down into the bed, nosing under a pillow to block out the world. He could feel Natasha tucking in and smoothing out the covers.
“Sleep well, Antoshka,” she whispered as she left the room.