It was with a start that Hermione woke in the middle of the night. Her first thought was that the Chitauri were back, her second that a Death Eater had broken through her wards. As her mind slowly worked its way out of the haze of sleep, her breath slowed and her pulse calmed. She closed her eyes, listening for whatever had awoken her.

"Hermione, are you awake?" a voice hissed. It was Tony. Thank Merlin.

She turned onto her side to face him, squinting to make out his face in the dark. "I am now." She tried not to sound testy. "Is something wrong?"

He mumbled something that she couldn't make out even in the heavy quiet and promptly shoved his face into his pillow.

"Tony, what's wrong?" Her voice was tender now. If his nightmares were coming back, he needed a proper therapist or mind Healer. Trustworthy ones were difficult to find when you were an Avenger; she vividly remembered her struggles finding one as a famous young war hero. Being a "savior of the world" was even more intense than being a secondary "savior of wizarding Britain." He bore the mantle well, even loved it sometimes, but that didn't matter on the nights his dreams turned New York to rubble again.

"I don't feel well." Although muffled by his pillow, the words were clear enough to understand.

"You don't feel well?" Hermione struggled to clear the last fog of sleep from her mind and pushed herself up to lean against the headboard. "Light," she warned. He groaned to let her know he'd heard and she flicked on her bedside lamp. Even on its lowest setting – Tony had programmed the lights to default to different light levels depending on the time and context – it temporarily blinded her.

As she blinked away spots, the familiar midnight blue of their comforter swam into view. Tony still had his face wedged between his pillow and the mattress, but she could see that his neck was coated in a thin layer of sweat.

"Love, let me see you," she murmured. He let out a pathetic moan, and she closed her eyes and counted slowly to five. Grown men could be difficult patients to diagnose. "I can't help you until I figure out what's wrong." When he still didn't emerge, she huffed half-seriously. "Well, if you don't want my help, you can handle it yourself."

She pretended to turn to put out the light, and with a groan Tony pulled himself up so that his head was resting normally on the pillow. He looked like hell and looked embarrassed about it. "I wouldn't be coming to you for help if I could handle it myself."

"Then let me help you," Hermione admonished. Her words softened as she continued, though. "Let's go piece by piece. How is your head?"

"Pain."

How did he feel? Warm. His stomach? Tony's answer was a rush to the bathroom. Hermione followed a few steps behind and felt a real pang of worry at the sight of him falling to his knees to retch into the toilet. "It'll be okay," she assured the both of them. "We just need to figure out what's wrong."

She brought a cool rag to his forehead and resumed the questions, pausing for each new wave of vomiting. His muscles? "Not 'got the shit beat out of me by aliens' sore, but not great." Did he eat any new foods in the last day? No. The questions continued until Hermione had a fair guess at what was wrong.

"Love, I think you have a stomach flu." She let the hand she'd been holding to the side of his neck (God that feels good, he'd said) drift up to caress a cheek.

"I told you I was sick," he said petulantly.

Hermione tried to keep her laugh as small as possible. "I believed you. Do you feel like you need to stay here?"

Tony cringed. "If I stay here for one more minute, I'm going to puke again from the very memory of puking."

She laughed. It was classic Tony to redirect into snark. "Come on, let's get you sitting up in bed. I'll put on some tea."

They walked slowly back to the bed, Hermione supporting him under an arm to help him stay standing. She stacked his pillows into a mock sofa back, and he collapsed into it with a sigh. "Is my tea gonna have a magic potion in it?"

"Probably," she confirmed. "It's going to taste terrible, though." She went to pull the comforter and sheets back up towards his chest only to notice that his shirt was soaked through. Of course it is, she thought; he's only been sick for an hour. "Take your shirt off, I'll get you a new one."

"I love having a witch doctor for a girlfriend." Tony sighed again. She could hear the shuffle of him getting out of the shirt while she dug through his bureau for a thinner replacement. "I get magic potions and she gets bossy when she wants me to undress."

"You're so sick you're delirious," Hermione accused. Smiling, she slipped one of his few flannel shirts over her camisole. "No more than flirting until you're better. Here –" she clicked on the television and handed him the remote – "keep yourself busy for a few minutes while I find you a magic potion and some ginger."

She set down his new shirt and turned to leave but was stopped by a warm hand on hers. "Can I kiss you?" he asked weakly. It was strange seeing Tony like this because of something so mundane as a stomach flu. Feverish, physically weak, likely on the verge of vomiting again or needing help back to the loo for other reasons…

Her nose scrunched at these last symptoms. "Best to wait until after the potion."

Although he pouted, Tony was uncharacteristically obedient. He nodded once as his eyes slid to the television screen. It was playing a bloody infomercial, yet he watched it as intently as a primetime drama. She searched slowly for any sign that he had something more intense than a flu, but found nothing. Conclusion: Tony Stark was just that pathetic when he was sick.

If she moved a little faster to the kitchen, well, that was that.

When she returned to their bedroom – balancing a teapot of ginger tea and a teacup of Draught of Ease from her personal stash on a tray – Tony seemed to have learned all that he could about the product onscreen. "What else is on?" Hermione was grateful that he wasn't so fevered as to stay forever invested in the advertisement.

"Drink this." She tried not to make it sound like an order.

He almost choked on the draught as it went down. She settled back into her spot on the bed with the tray and stroked his shoulder gently while he cringed and coughed. "Please Sir, can I have some more?" he asked roughly in a sincerely terrible attempt at a British accent. Hermione tossed her head back in open laughter. "No, really," said Tony in his normal accent. "If I have more, will I feel better faster?"

"I'm sorry, love. That's not how it works." He pouted again and Merlin was it cute now that she wasn't so worried. She stroked a damp hair off his forehead and he shivered and leaned into her touch. "I'm going to be right here," she murmured.

"What would I do without you?" Tony asked in wonder.

She took his now-empty teacup and filled it with ginger tea. "You'd heal a little slower, that's all."

"No, there's something special about you," he insisted. Although she knew there was almost no way his fever could've worsened, she checked anyways. "I love you," he said plainly. "Let me know when I can kiss you again."

"I will," she promised.

They sat awake until dawn broke, Hermione watching Tony watching television. When the first light broke through their curtains, she asked how he felt.

"Like I want to kiss you," Tony said. He grasped her hand tightly, and the color seemed to have returned to his face.

Hermione smiled. "You seem better."

"I had a great Healer." He pulled her by the arm on top of him and looked her up and down. "She was kind of inappropriate, though. She even told me to take off my shirt."

She slid his flannel shirt down her shoulders and he pulled it the rest of the way down her arms. "Are you going to file a complaint?" she asked innocently.

In the golden dawn light, Tony finally kissed her. "I don't know, I think I could still be satisfied."