Tony doesn't make it quite back to bed. He intends to go there at about eleven but detours into the kitchen for the rest of the soup, and flops down on the sofa after grudgingly downing the Motrin that Jarvis nagged him about.
Now it's two in the morning and he's still awake in the dark, listening.
There are noises late at night, especially in a big house on a remote cliff side. The wind whistles around the windows and moans along the headland. There's a steady susurration of the waves down below against the shore, and the creaks and groans of the house itself against the rock.
Tony is listening to something else; something nobody else can hear. His eyes closed and his lashes are wet.
"Dad, just listen to me! I know what I'm doing!"
"Tony, this discussion is over! Until you're eighteen, I'm still in charge of you and that's that! Don't talk to me about any more the Academy, you're a *Stark* damn it, and meant for bigger things!"
"Howard darling, watch the road, Howard!---"
Behind his closed lids he sees ghosts; the faint images of his parents in a fluttering collection of memories that never focus anymore, but remain soft-edged and elusive. It's as if by remembering them so often the handling of the memory fades them, like sunlight on photographs. Tony hears his mother's voice in the depths of his mind, her sweet and stern voices, her old Italian lullabies. He hears his father's long rambles about politics, and engineering and destiny; his occasional tirades and quiet humming.
They never address him. Tony pleads in his thoughts, begging for forgiveness, grasping his guilt and wanting nothing more than for them to tell him it's all right, and that the accident was simply that—an accident. But in his head, Howard and Maria wander through those seventeen years of his life, apart and together, and never, never speak directly to him.
And he knows why.
Tony opens his eyes and wearily gets up, brushing his long hair out of his face and heading for the medical suite. He reaches for the restricted dispenser and wordlessly, Jarvis lets it drop a single capsule into his trembling palm. Tony dry swallows it and walks slowly up the stairs. He has the timing down to an art, and as he reaches the Master bedroom, the pill's contents begin to work. Wobbly now, Tony drops onto the mattress.
One of the 'bots comes in a few minutes later, to pull a blanket over his still form.
By mid-morning, Tony is sluggish and warm again; not as bad as before, but his energy level has flat-lined, and along with everything else, the fact that there's no more soup is the rotten cherry on top of his depression.
He thinks about Doctor Potts. He thinks about her legs, because they are definitely one of her best features, and he's always had a weakness for lovely legs. Tony wonders if Doctor Potts has ever modeled, and if she has a boyfriend.
Probably.
That depresses him further, but he lets his thoughts drift to images of Doctor Potts waiting for her boyfriend. The slow stir of scenes in his head drift into the sensual, and in his imagination, he pictures her slowly stripping, letting her clothes drop to the floor.
"Jarvis," he croaks, "five minute timeout."
His right hand slips into his sweatpants, and Tony groans to himself, lost in the luscious imagery.
Now he's the boyfriend, ohyeah, sitting back watching, and it's a hell of a show his lissome redhead is putting on for him. Slow strokes grow to steady ones. Under those professional garments of hers are items straight out of a Jezebel online catalog: tiny opaque panties, a flirty black garter belt and a belly chain of such fine gold that it's more like a glittering thread hanging off those trim hips . . .
He's breathing hard now, and knows he should probably grab some tissues *before* things get critical, but the fantasy is too compelling and moments later, Tony gives himself over to orgasm as he pictures Doctor Potts slithering out of her panties for him.
Slumping back and grinning, Tony figures his morning isn't a total loss.
Then Jarvis speaks up. "Doctor Potts is at the main gate, Mr. Stark. She will be at the house in eleven minutes and sixteen seconds."
Panic. He tenses, rolls out of bed and nearly falls as he scrambles to the bathroom, then races back to collect the damp Kleenex in the bedside waste basket. Three hard flushes send swirling it down the toilet, and Tony turns to the shower, barking orders. "Jarvis, medium hot, and have Dummy take my, um, sweats to the laundry, pronto!"
He stumbles into the shower, nearly slipping, and frantically scrubs his groin, feeling a sense of alarm and humiliation racing through his system. The afterglow is soaped away, and he leans against the wall, fighting his own pulse.
Mustn't panic, Tony reminds himself. Mustn't panic.
The mantra helps a little, along with the hot water. By the time he's done, Tony is almost calm, although he checks the bedroom carefully before stepping out in his towel.
As he comes down the staircase, he hears her in the kitchen, and prepares himself to face her, hoping for nonchalance.
She looks up at him with concern. "You should be in bed, Mr. Stark."
Tony notes she's unpacking bags, but there are Tupperware containers coming out, not groceries. It's thinner than the stuff he remembers, and in different shapes than the bowls his mother had.
"I feel okay," he defends himself. "Did Obie send you back?"
She doesn't answer right away, and finishes putting containers into the fridge before coming over to him. "Pulse."
Tony extends his arm and she presses her fingers against the tendons of his wrist, checking her watch at the same time. Her lips purse. "A little fast. Are you feeling nervous?"
She's touching him, and her cool fingers on his skin feel good.
"I'm not nervous," he lies, and curses himself mentally as his pulse jumps once more. "What's in the bowls?"
She blushes. Tony is fascinated, and notes the spread of soft pink across her face, under her very light freckles. "Oh, I, um, had a few leftovers that I thought you might like. I'm not much of a cook, but I always make too much, and your blood test results showed that you're um, slightly anemic, so it would be a good idea to eat more spinach . . ."
"No." Tony balks. "I take vitamins."
"Yes, but your diet has been somewhat . . . narrow?" Doctor Potts points out patiently. "I know you're not a candidate for rickets or beriberi Mr. Stark, but some variety in your diet would be immediately beneficial. What vitamins are you talking currently?"
Tony scowls. "Stark brand of course. They come with the monthly shipments; Jarvis has the invoices. Not all those bowls are spinach, right?"
"No," Doctor Potts agrees, holding one up. "This is Chita Rivera chunky guacamole."
The word 'guacamole' catches his interest immediately, and Tony makes a grab for the bowl, but Doctor Potts is faster and pulls it back. "Not for breakfast, Mr. Stark. And not with your fingers."
"It's my house," Tony whines, "And you just said you brought it for me." Part of him is horrified at the way he sounds, petulant and childish.
Another part of him just wants the damned guacamole.
She's striving for patience, he can see it in the set of her lips as she puts the bowl into the refrigerator and turns back to him. "Mr. Stark, you are recovering from the flu. You need at least another day of bed rest, fluids, and analgesics. I need you to cooperate or . . ."
He can't resist rising to the implied threat. It's sending an odd thrill through him, this weird . . . bickering. When Obie comes to visit sometimes they bicker, but not like this. Generally he and Obie talk about various projects, and scarf down pizza and beer. Sometimes Obie challenges him to a game of chess or poker, but not so much anymore. Sometimes when Obie comes by, Tony can tell he'd rather be somewhere else.
And sometimes there's the heavy musk of a woman on him.
Tony mentally shakes off that thought. "Or else what?"
"Or else I'll do a full physical work-up on you right now, complete with prostate exam, stool collection and anything else that comes to mind," Doctor Potts tells him firmly.
Tony shoots her a baleful look. "Fine. It's just guacamole. No big loss."
But it is, actually. Tony remembers guacamole. It's one of those peculiar things—he never thinks of making it, but when it comes with the Mexican plate he sometimes orders, he wolfs it down.
It used to be served—green, thick and festive-- at the parties his parents threw, ages ago, and Tony remembers the lights, and laughter and music.
Guacamole.
"And anyway, my mom knew Chita Rivera," he adds tauntingly. "I could just call her up and ask for the recipe you know."
"Really?" Doctor Potts sounds half awed, half skeptical. "Okay then. When you call Ms. Rivera up, tell her I leave the cilantro out. In the meantime, what have you had for breakfast?"
One reluctant bowl of oatmeal later, and Tony is back in bed, fuming a bit. It doesn't help that Jarvis has taken the Doctor's side and refuses him access to the workshop. Sure he feels crappy, but he's worked through worse before, and having Doctor Potts around is making him uncomfortable.
"I have a deadline to meet," he grouses, crossing his arms over the Thing and glaring at her while she checks his ears.
"Have you been living up here all this time?" she asks, and her tone is soft, but steady. Tony gives her a sidelong glance, instantly wary.
He doesn't want to talk about it.
There's nothing to say, as far as Tony's concerned, and not even someone who can make good soup is going to change that. Nobody bothers him, nobody bothers with him and he likes it that way.
And the mansion is plenty big. He's got room to run and think and build and breathe. Tony doesn't need to go anywhere: not the hospital, not the therapist's not anywhere. It can all come to him as far as he's concerned.
"What's that got to do with my ears?"
"Nothing," she admits, moving to feel his neck. "Hmm, glands are a little swollen, but nothing dangerous. How's your throat?"
"Fine," Tony grouses. It's a ticklish line now, because she's so close, and the scent of her is filling his nose, adding a new layer of awareness of her. She smells like vanilla, and fabric softener, and some sort of womanly scent.
God, it's more potent than any imagery of her in a garter belt, and Tony files it away, for later.
"Throat's fine. Are we done?"
"Reflexes next," she continues. "I ask because you picked up the flu from something. Since Mr. Stane doesn't have the flu currently, that means that your contamination traveled here by an alternate route. I suspect one of your fast food containers."
Her reflex hammer taps just under his knee; Tony feels his leg twitch in response. Most of him is close to responding, despite his mid-morning session of personal time.
"I thought flu was airborne."
"It is, but people have been known to sneeze on things, Mr. Stark," she tells him. "According to your tests, you're a little bit anemic, and as of yesterday, a little dehydrated. I'd like you to drink at least twenty-two ounces of water or sports drink between now and bedtime. I can't make you eat any particular food, but I'd strongly suggest that you try to get in some of the cream of spinach tarts."
"Do you have a boyfriend?" Tony blurts out bluntly.
The pause looms, as huge and awkward as a fart on a first date.
Doctor Potts quietly packs her reflex hammer away. "I don't think that's relevant at the moment, Mr. Stark." She doesn't look at him, and the air is thick with embarrassment.
Tony watches her walk towards the door, knowing damned well that she's leaving and probably never coming back, and the sudden impulsive need to stop her forces the words from his throat. "Yes," he calls out after a few seconds. "I've been living up here for the last two decades. By . . . myself."
He watches her turn to face him again, and he braces himself, expecting the inevitable questions about why and how and what to spill out of her because it's not just the Thing that makes him a freak, no.
Tony understands he's a sick man.
But instead she pulls up her shoulders, and her mouth twists in a wry pursing of her lips. She hesitates. Then, very softly, Doctor Potts murmurs, "Yes. Well, sort of. We're . . . trying to work things out."
He struggles to sit up, rising on his elbows. "Did you see Obie? He was the one to send you, wasn't he?"
Again, her mouth twists up. It's a lovely mouth, Tony realizes, and when she smiles it makes her face light up.
But she's not smiling now. Instead, she nervously wraps her hands around the handle of her bag and looks away from him. "Yes. He and I had a . . . discussion this morning concerning you, Mr. Stark. He'd like me to monitor your recovery and progress on a semi-regular basis."
Her language is stilted and formal; unlike the easy conversation they've been having up to this point, and Tony feels slightly anxious as a hundred ugly scenarios cross his mind.
"Obie . . . he's uh, gruff sometimes, but he means well. I know he's got his faults and I know there are those uhh, stories about him, but if he's sending you here, then he wouldn't . . . I mean . . ."Tony trails off, red in the face and not sure what the hell he's saying OR what he means.
Because Obie sure as hell would Tony realizes miserably. Obie has spent years insinuating and bragging about his indulgences in what he calls 'company perks.' Worse, Tony knows he himself has passively condoned it, even envied it at times, and all because he's never had to face up to anyone involved before.
More humiliating silence.
"You need to rest," Doctor Potts suddenly repeats, clinging to the advice like a mantra, her words slightly brittle.
Cowed now, Tony nods and slides off his elbows, grateful for the blanket, and the excuse to sleep. Still, his concern prods him once more. "Are you . . . leaving?"
"Yes," she tells him, and her voice is lighter once again, more like her natural tone. "It's Wednesday, Mr. Stark. I'll be back sometime on Friday morning. I will be checking to see if you're drinking enough, so be warned. Please rest."
"Okay," Tony agrees, and from somewhere he remembers to add, "Thank you."
That startles her; and Tony grins as she shoots him a surprised look from the doorway. Impishly he can't resist adding, "But you can take the spinach with you."
He liked her exasperated chuckle, and listens to it as she leaves, the sound of it rising from the circular stairs.
Chita Rivera Chunky Guacamole
½ medium white onion, finely chopped
2 or 3 Serrano Peppers, stemmed, seeded and finely chopped
1 large, ripe tomato, cored and finely chopped
1 garlic clove, peeled and finely chopped
10 sprigs of Cilantro, finely chopped (optional for those of us prone to heartburn)
3 medium ripe avocados (Haas are best)
½ teaspoon of salt
Juice of ½ of a lime
In a medium bowl, mix the finely chopped onion, peppers, tomato, garlic and cilantro. Close to the time you are going to serve the dip, halve the avocados lengthwise from end to end around the pits. Twist each half off of the pit and scoop them out into the bowl. Using either your hand or a fork, roughly mash the avocado pulp with the other ingredients to make a chunky and thick mass.
Enjoy the goodness.