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Not What You Were Expecting
It was Phil Coulson who first suspected something amiss when Tony skimped out on a BOD meeting. On a typical day the words "Tony" and "conveniently absent" were not uncommonly used in the same sentence, as the great Tony Stark had a reputation for an attendance record that coincided with his mood.
However, when it came to chewing out the asses of lawyers who, as Tony put it, had the entirety of the George Washington Bridge stuffed up their asses, one could always count on Tony Stark to deliver some tasty verbal appetizers. He seemed to take sport in demolishing the bureaucracy, one notch at a time, with uncanny aplomb. There was a reason one of his seven doctorates included English lit, and he always relished the opportunity to use words to run his opponents into the ground. You could practically taste the gravel in his wake.
The BOD meeting (collateral damage of 42nd street and unfair compensation) should have been right up Tony's alley; certainly; Phil Coulson was not the only one to turn his head when Stark claimed to be holed up in Paris with a TED talk.
“Did we fall into an alternate universe, or is Stark actually passing up an opportunity to cut some diplomatic ass?” Nick Fury wondered aloud. It was not every day your boss was taken by surprise. Phil muttered something under his breath about Stark’s expected nonsenses and grabbed a mug of coffee from Clint on his way in.
"Sorry, Phil, buddy," Tony had said over the phone the night before, not sounding even remotely apologetic. "I won't be back until next week. By the way. Did I ever mention how much better escargot tastes than it looks?"
Phil had rolled his eyes and disconnected, feeling the back of his mind itch as it always did when something was wrong. Now, after gaging that the others at SHIELD did not share this feeling, he dismissed the thought. Most likely Stark had found some posh soiree to occupy his time. He had a reputation almost as green as the incredible Hulk, after all.
Then Steve Rogers mentioned that most of the steel of the Ford Foundation Building had, regrettably, been…melted, and Phil soon forgot about Tony’s absence altogether (because forgetting about Tony Stark was rather difficult to do).
If Phil had bothered to check his files he would have seen that that particular TED talk had been postponed until next month.
Tony Stark was neither in France nor engaging in indulgent frivolities. He was, at present, in his private quarters with a laptop on his bed and a holographics hard drive on the floor next to him projecting images of his new Mark IX gauntlet rotator. Not that he was actually looking at the laptop; he was staring faintly at the Pollack on his wall and yawning. His arc reactor pulsed dimly through an aubergine pullover and he had two pairs of socks covering his feet.
"JARVIS, put room temp up to seventy-six," he said after yawning again.
"Certainly, Sir," came JARVIS's reply. "And I might add that your temperature has climbed zero point two degrees in the last hour."
Tony sighed. "Yeah. Thanks for that." He opened up one of his virtual blueprints, squinting at the headache that this fantastic cold had given him. Being sick was right up there with being handed things, cold coffee, and warmongering extraterrestrials. All deserved the Tony Stark “YUCK” stamp.
He had not bothered to tell Pepper. Pepper, who was up to her Tiffany diamond earrings in paperwork and renovations for the tower, did not need to deal with a sick Tony. Two years ago Tony would have whined and carried on and probably would have had her bring him something—soup or toast, maybe—but he liked to think himself a little more mindful of others now. Just a tad.
Besides, however nasty this little bug was, it was nothing as life-threatening as say, palladium poisoning. Now, if he could suffer through that for six months without a word to anyone Tony failed to see why a cold should merit any announcement.
The only reasonable thing to do was to switch his workspace to a more comfortable location and pray to Valhalla that he did not sneeze on anything.
Despite the automated velvet window blinds, the intercoms, and the partial holo-lab, his bedroom, while laughably recherché, was hardly ergonomically correct for engineering. Tony decided he should catch up on some paperwork (and by paperwork he meant folder organizing and hacking; he could not remember the last time he’d actually had to file something manually).
He drank water from his personal fridge, made some toast, sliced some fruit. He opted for Yani instead of AC/DC (a guilty pleasure only Pepper knew about). Life was not too bad, and for once he did not mind the lack of attention.
Sometime on Thursday afternoon his phone rang. Tony had been dozing, lulled by the steady sprinkling of rain against his window. He grimaced when he saw that it was Coulson on the other line. He was feeling just cruddy enough to give his photo ID the finger.
“I know how fond you are of hacking our systems, Mister Stark,” Coulson said in lieu of a greeting, “but you may have forgotten about the tabs we keep on you. Did the fact that we latched a bio-locator onto Stark Tower slip your mind?”
Well damn.
“So I take it it’s not showing me in France,” Tony said. He sighed. “Alright, you caught me. Did those flacks survive your wrath?”
“They managed just fine,” came Phil’s dry reply, followed by the briefest of pauses. “You sound tired.”
Tony stretched out on his bed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, you know. Long night,” he said. “Parties, booze, girls clad in spiky bras and Timberlands.”
“I’ll be sure to tell Miss Potts you had such a great time.”
“Did you drop in to actually ask me anything, Coulson, or should I regret taking my own calls now?”
This time there was a longer pause on the other end. “No, Mister Stark,” Coulson said. “Just checking the efficiency of SHIELD’s tracking technology.”
Tony suppressed a cough. “That’s what I like to hear,” he said as Coulson hung up. He gave himself a mental kick soon afterward. Most people knew better than to test Coulson’s Bullshit Meter of Shit. If you were smart you never tried, but Tony seemed to adopt a faltering of intelligence in these regards.
Most likely he would be getting a visit from Pepper pretty soon.
With the timing of a broken grandfather clock, Pepper managed to check up on Tony just as he was coughing some gunk out of his throat. She let herself into his room and stood there while he hacked out the last of it, eyebrow raised in an elegant arch and hands placed at her hips.
“I thought,” She said, “we had a new policy on this.”
“What, you mean the whole ‘please tell me if I’m dying’ thing?” Tony responded, wiping his mouth. “I’m not dying, Pep. It’s a cold. I’ve had hangovers that were worse than this.”
Pepper sighed. “That’s not the point, Tony,” she said. “Why didn’t you tell me? I got a call from Phil asking if you were okay. Phil.”
Of course Coulson had noticed. Tony gave a shrug and methodically straightened the laptop stationed across his thighs. “Gotta look out for my personal assistant. Who would do all the Stark Industries managing for me if I infected you with my germs?” he asked, then wiggled his fingers at Pepper’s face. “Plus, you’re all snotty when you’re sick.” Pepper’s eyebrow rose a little higher, and Tony reminded himself that Coulson was not the only one with an unbreakable Bullshit Meter.
“Look, I’m doing work,” Tony protested.
Pepper stared at him for a moment longer. Her hands dropped from her hips, her face relaxed, and she sighed. “Is there…anything I can get you?” she asked.
Tony blinked, looking genuinely shocked. “Um, some tea would be nice, actually. I mean—“he sat up higher—“you don’t have to, but—“
“Sit, Tony,” Pepper said. An older, almost maternal smile twisted the corners of her lips, and Tony had to remind himself that she wasn’t a twenty-five year old secretary anymore. “I’ll get it.”
“Thank you, Miss Potts. Oh. And there’s one more thing.”
Pepper turned. “Yes, Mister Stark?”
Tony cleared his throat. It came out sounding a little hoarser than he would have liked it to. Actually, it sounded more like sandpaper over asphalt. He saw Pepper wince. “I’d like this—“he gestured to his face—“on the lo-pro,” he said, subsequently slicing his hand through the air. “No one needs to know.”
The news that Tony Stark had been temporarily felled by acute rhinophanryngitis remained on the lo-pro for roughly three hours, seven minutes, and twenty-five seconds.
“Sir, Mister Rogers is outside your door and is requesting access into your quarters.”
Tony groaned. “Do I really have to let him in?”
“He informs me that he has knödel, Sir.”
“Fine.” He pressed a button to slide his door open and squinted at the plate that Steve had in his arms. “Mazel Tov. Whose Bar Mitzvah?”
Steve gave him a look and set the plate down. “You alright?” he asked.
Tony gave a shrug. “We don’t all have super-powered immune systems.”
“Believe me, I know what it feels like,” Steve said, ignoring the fact that Tony had not really answered the question. “When I was younger—“
“I know, I read your file,” Tony cut in. “Asthma, low blood pressure, measles, mumps, scarlet fever, pneumonia four times. You should have been a campaign model for Bubble Boy.”
“Bubble Boy?”
“Seinfeld, you wouldn’t get it.”
Steve stood by Tony’s bed, long arms dangling somewhat awkwardly without the plate to occupy them. Tony peered over at the dish, not in the least bit surprised to find that the plate was one from his own vintage set downstairs. “I see the balls, but where’s the soup?” he asked.
Steve frowned. “That would be—“
“Kneydl, Sir,” JARVIS corrected. Steve raised his eyes to the ceiling as if to thank the AI, but thought better of it at the last minute.
“We used to make this for some of the families in our neighborhood—for the ones that had just come in from Ellis Island,” he explained. “Sometimes we would put plums in them, Bucky and…and me.”
Tony was about to correct Steve’s grammar but ended up sneezing instead, which saved him from saying something tactless.
“Gesundheit,” Steve said, turning to leave. He paused at the door, frowned, and pursed his lips as he noticed something terrible. “You don’t have any Kleenex,” he remarked.
“Waste of money,” Tony said between sniffles. “Having them around implies that I’m expecting to need them. Which I’m not.”
Steve did not bother to point out that tissues were considered a slightly smaller waste of money than a duvet with a thread count of six hundred. “You kind of look like you need them,” he said. “I’ll get you some.”
“No,” Tony groaned, rubbing his temples, “no, you don’t—“
Steve gave him the Captain America Stare of Authority. Tony resigned.
“Fine. I mean…thanks,” he said. He nodded toward the knödel. “And thanks for that too.”
“You’re welcome,” Steve said, perfect and proper as always.
It was Bruce who returned with the tissues, bringing along tea and a somewhat amused-looking Natasha.
“Courtesy of Captain America,” Bruce said, tossing three boxes of Kleenex onto Tony’s bed. One of them sailed through a holo-image of a helical gear.
Tony sighed, picking up a box and inspecting it with feigned annoyance. “What, is this like a party in my room now? Make fun of the sick guy?” He tossed the box to the side. In all actuality, he was pleasantly surprised at the company. It certainly was a change from suffering alone.
“Just thought we’d pop in,” Bruce replied. He gave one of his lopsided smiles that Tony found just a little endearing. “We haven’t heard from you in a while.” Tony met Bruce’s eye and immediately saw the unspoken: I haven’t heard from you.
“Yeah, well, I’ve been busy with my two new houseguests,” Tony said, tapping his chest above the arc reactor lightly. “Meet Mister Mucus and Mrs. Sputum.” At this Natasha rolled her eyes and tossed back her red sheen of hair. She was growing it out again, and it fell just short of her shoulders.
“You need anything, Stark?” she asked.
Tony glanced over and his mostly finished knödel. “Some Jewish food.” He was mostly joking.
Natasha smiled and reached into her bag for a Tupperware container. “Does lapsha count?”
To his credit, Tony hid his surprise well. “You know, I’m just loving the whole pro bono ethnic comfort-food stuff. Feels like having a maid again.”
“You had a maid?”
“Once. It didn’t really work out.” Tony took the container of soup from Natasha. The plastic felt warm beneath his chilled fingers. “You better get me something with curry tomorrow, Banner,” he said.
“Um, I don’t know about that but I could give you a, uh, magnetostatic formula if you wanted.”
That made Tony forget about the soup in his hands and he sat up straighter. “What? You figured out the flux density without me?”
“Kind of—well,” Bruce fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves, “there are still some problems with the electron spin of the titanium that I was hoping to discuss with you…”
“Which is my cue to leave,” Natasha said, rising. “Barton says hi. He’s a bit of a germaphobe.”
“What, mister I Wear Sleeveless Leather in Moscow? That’s new.”
“Actually it’s not,” Natasha said, eyes humored, and Tony remembered just how far back those two went. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to join Rogers downstairs. He’s raiding your cinema.”
Tony set down the lapsha. “Why is he still here?”
“Apparently he thought you could use a movie,” Bruce said. “I think he expected you to whine and gripe about being sick, so now he’s trying to make up for it.”
“Great. Captain America meets Modern Hollywood. I can see the headlines now: World’s First Avenger Found Braindead Due to Bad Film Writing,” Tony said, unable to stop a snicker from escaping.
End.