A/N: I know I've been gone from writing waaaay longer than I intended, but I'm back now. Also, I know I've only posted for Hunger Games so far, and this is something totally different. I definitely follow the wind and am guilty of fandom disloyalty if something more tempting comes along. (Sorry Hunger Gamers, I'm an Avenger-er right now…)

Anyhow, don't own any of this stuff, but, as always, I wish I did.

And apologies to anyone who speaks Mandarin. Never having tried to, I have a difficult time understanding that language. I'm more of an English/French/Spanish type… Sorry.

"Never Expected to Hear You Say That"

Tony set his coffee mug down on the side table and massaged his sore temple. Caffeine usually helped his headaches. Today, however, it just seemed to be making his stomach upset. Maybe it was yet another ill effect of palladium poisoning. Speaking of which, it was probably about time for another dose of chlorophyll. The thought of the thick green fluid made Tony's stomach flip. God, life was just screwy today.

Tony returned his attention to his client, a Mr. Lin-Wu, some technology mogul from China who Tony had never heard of until this morning. The man didn't speak a word of English, so at the moment, he was in deep conversation with his young and nervous translator. Mr. Lin-Wu was elderly, and his gravely voice contrasted greatly with his translator's shrill one. Though Tony generally hated rude cultural stereotypes, he had to admit that this one was true: Mandarin Chinese did sound sort of like someone had just tipped over the silverware drawer. And it was doing nothing for his headache.

Tony reached for the lever on the side of his comfortable armchair. The footrest popped out and the back of the La Z Boy reclined several inches. Lin-Wu and the translator fell silent and stared at him. "What?" Tony asked. "You do it, too. It's fun."

The translator gave Tony a sideways look, then began talking to Lin-Wu again. Yup, recliners in his in-home boardroom had been a great idea. Tony reached for his coffee and rested the warm mug on his uneasy stomach. He closed his eyes as the knife-fork-and-spoon conversation continued to drive sharp vibrations through his head.

"Mr. Stark?" the translator asked.

Tony jumped and opened his eyes. "Yes?"

"Mr. Stark. Mr. Lin-Wu have figure for you." 'Figure' came out more as 'furgur.'

"What?" said Tony, confused.

There was more conferring in Mandarin, then the translator handed Tony a sheet of paper. "Figure," he repeated, glancing at Lin-Wu to be sure he was making the correct action.

"Uh, okay," Tony said, looking down at the paper in his hand. It was a single sheet of white paper covered in lines of type in Chinese characters. At the bottom of the page the number '17,000,000' was written in blue pen.

"I don't know what this is," Tony said, shaking his head. "What are we even talking about? Money? Units? Number of products?"

Lin-Wu and the translator exchanged a few quick words. "Monies," the translator confirmed.

Tony drummed his fingers on the handle of his coffee mug with one hand and pushed away the paper with the other. "For what, though?" He sighed. "What? Investment? Patents?" Tony chuckled under his breath, "Want to buy my car?"

"Car?" asked the translator, clearly not following.

"Yeah, well, not really," Tony tried to explain without making his head throb, which didn't seem possible. "But I have no idea what the money is for. What do you want me to do? What do you want from me!"

Stunned silence followed. As soon as Tony closed his mouth, he realized that he'd been shouting. That probably hadn't been the best move. For both his clients and his headache. But when the Mandarin yammering started up again, Tony'd had enough. He slammed his coffee down on the side table and kicked the footrest back into his chair.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know why you're giving me money. Or if you want me to give you money. Or if we're talking about business or dogs on the moon! That's why you're supposed to have a translator that fucking speaks English!" Tony was on his feet and the two other men were leaning away from him. The translator leaned back so far that he made the footrest pop out of his chair.

Tony was laughing rudely at this when a knock sounded on the glass door. He looked up and saw Pepper beckoning to him. A throb of pain assaulted his temple, but he ignored it along with Pepper, and he waved for her to leave him alone. "Go away, Pepper. I got this," He called as he brought one hand up and pressed it to the sore spot on the side of his head.

Pepper opened the door a crack. "Tony, come here," she said quietly.

"Go away," he answered.

"No, Tony, really, I need to talk to you," she insisted.

"I'm in the middle of a—"

"Tony, please…" Pepper opened the door further. Resigned, Tony dropped his hand from his temple and met her at the door.

"What the fuck?" Tony asked. "I'm in the middle of a meeting with these idiots who want to talk to me in fucking Spoon, and—"

He was wringing his hands in exasperation when Pepper cut him off. "Tony, please. Calm down," she soothed. "I know you don't feel good. Just calm down." She reached for his shoulder, but Tony moved out of her reach. The motion sent a throb through his head, which in turn sent a sickening roll through his stomach.

"I'm fine, just shut up and let me fucking do this," Tony said.

"Here, just let me—" Pepper held up the digital thermometer Tony hadn't realized that she'd been holding.

"Hey, stop it," He said firmly.

"You stop it. Hold still," Pepper insisted. She took hold of Tony's solid shoulder and gently inserted the device into his ear. The shrill beep sounded a few seconds later, and Tony winced. Feelings of discomfort ran though his head and stomach again.

Pepper examined the thermometer's digital display. "101.4," she declared. "It's official. You have a fever. You need to go lie down. I'll take care of this." She gestured at the meeting in progress. The translator was now trying to use his feet to push his footrest back in.

"Pepper, I got this," Tony retaliated. "I just need 20 minutes for these fuckers to explain their shit."

"You need to rest," Pepper insisted.

"We'll sign the goddamn thing, and they can go back to China, and then I can do whatever the hell I want to do."

"Tony," Pepper intoned.

"Do you know what the 17 million's for? They said 17 million." Tony pushed slightly sweaty curls off his forehead. The seemingly inane action made his headache double in intensity. Nausea was rising with dangerous speed.

"Tony," Pepper said firmly. "You need to go lie down. You have a fever. You're sick. I know you don't feel well."

"No, I got—" Tony swallowed convulsively and quickly changed tacts. "Yeah. Fine. Whatever." He felt like utter shit. The room had gotten about ten times too warm and his hands were trembling.

Pepper laid a hand on Tony's shoulder. "Okay, come on," she said gently, reaching to open the door.

His stomach couldn't take it anymore. "Pepperimgonnapuke," Tony choked, doubling over. Pepper deftly pulled the small trash bin from against the wall behind her. She held it with one hand and rubbed the back of Tony's neck with the other as he vomited (mostly coffee) into the bin.

When Tony was done, his eyes and nose were streaming, and he had gone very pale. Pepper put an arm around him and began to lead him from the room. To the two Chinese men who sat stunned in their (now both upright) recliners, Pepper said, "We'll reschedule, okay?"

Tony was still shaking and nauseous when Pepper got him sitting down on the living room couch. He retched again, and she handed over the bin she'd brought from the boardroom. She sat down beside him and laid her hand over his goosebump-covered neck again.

"Sorry," Tony whispered as he spat out a small amount of brown liquid.

Pepper tenderly hugged his shoulders and chuckled. "Never expected to hear you say that," she said with a smile.

End.

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