Guys, there's really no excuses for the updating wait on this one – I just haven't wanted to write. I moved into my first apartment, and bills and groceries and real adult things kind of took over for a while. My creativity slipped, and I hadn't felt any good ideas. So many amazing prompt suggestions and I couldn't come up with anything worthy of them but finally, my muse returned.
By the way, HOW AMAZING WAS CIVIL WAR.?!
Please enjoy…
M is for Migraine
Clint Barton hated mornings. He hated the blinding light that interrupted him from his dreams. He hated fumbling around for his hearing aids. He hated untangling his limbs from Natasha's. He hated the cold air on his bare ass. He hated the cold floor on his bare feet. He hated the cold water on his scruffy face.
He hated mornings.
He dialed his aids to a comfortable level and stretched, waking slowly. The distinct clicking and soothing pitter-patter of New York rain interrupted his fuzzy wistfulness about warm sheets and soft pillows - the grey clouds outside of his window and the city-wide haze of the storm were certainly doing nothing for his motivation levels. More than ever, he wanted to ignore the rest of the planet and crawl back under the covers with his favorite girl.
Barton quirked his head to the side, back to the bed, and stared out the window for one last second.
You know what? He pondered. That's exactly what I'll do. Fuck it all. And he decidedly spun around to crawl back into bed. After all, it wasn't even eight o'clock, and –
But Natasha was already up and turning the sheets down.
"Nat, no. Nononono! I want to go back to bed. Just ten more minutes, babe, please." The archer begged. "I know you hate sleeping in, but look outside," he gestured widely to the enormous window in their Stark Towers Apartment master suite. "It's pouring rain. I bet every criminal in the city is gonna go back to bed the moment they see this shit, so why can't we?"
She scoffed a little. "Barton, we're already up. We can't waste the day away. You know we have that debriefing with Fury before noon, and half of the incoming squad to train tomorrow that we need to prep for, not to mention..." Natasha kept lecturing while folding bedsheets precisely, but Barton had begun paying much more attention to her body than her words. Her husky morning voice, in combination with the fact that she was still naked from their…nighttime escapades…. did nothing but encourage his bad behavior.
Now he really wanted to go back to bed – and take her with him.
"Babe…" Clint groaned, throwing his head back childishly, coming around to her back and wrapping his muscled arms around her waist, interrupting the lecture he had stopped listening to ages ago. "Ten minutes." He pressed a sweet kiss to her shoulder.
"No, Clint. Training." She playfully swatted at his hands as his fingers splayed over her abdomen. "Gym in 20."
"Nat, babe," Clint pressed another kiss. "I love it when you speak to me in three word sentences." He chuckled. "Gets me all hot and bothered."
The Russian continued staring out the window, but coyly now. A small tug at her lip and a raised eyebrow were her only tells that she was playing along. "Does it, really?"
Clint groaned. "There you go again, babe." He wrapped his arms tighter. "I just can't control myself." And he nuzzled his morning scruff into the thick, curly red hair at the nape of her neck.
"You always were undisciplined." Nat openly smiled and spun around in his arms. She gave him a lingering kiss on his lips and a flash of mischief danced in her eyes. "Now, can we get some exercise?"
Barton, whose eyes were still closed savoring the last, lingering taste of her mouth, gave a small shake of the head. "Agent Romanoff, I plan on getting plenty of exercise right here, dammit."
"Clint, no-!" And Barton swept her clear off the hardwood floors and laid her porcelain, deadly body out on the steel grey sheets. The contrast between the bedding and her hair, plus the feline grace to the way she was flexing herself, tempting him, made Clint's eyes go wild and dark. He let himself stand over her, taking in the vision that was his lover.
Natasha watched, with a small hint of pride, as Clint reveled at the very sight of her. She grinned, egging him on. "You comin' or what, Robin Hood?"
He gave his head a small shake and a pained smirk as he crawled onto the bed and towards her. "You're stunning and you know it and I hate you and I love you."
"Sounds about right." And the two laughed. Barton hung his head to envelop the two in a meaningful kiss, and passion ensued.
They weren't having sex for five minutes when a single rap of the knuckles sounded at their door. Before the two could even react, the door swung open and Steve unwittingly poked his upper body in.
"Hey, are you two coming to the – OH MY GOD!"
Natasha practically threw Clint off of her. "ROGERS!?"
"STEVE, WHAT THE FUCK, MAN!" Clint, wasn't sure whether to use his hands to cover Natasha or himself, so he ended up just standing there without covering anything for a good two seconds.
Then suddenly everyone was scrambling for something – whether it be clothes, bedsheets, and or a window to jump out of. Steve backtracked out of the room so fast and so furiously that he accidentally took the door with him, his white-knuckled grip in the door handle ripping the hinges out of the frame as he flew backwards into the hall. He was fifty shades of red as he fumbled with the door, trying to throw it back onto its hinges as he glanced desperately and helplessly at ANYTHING other than the room and its occupants.
"I-I AM SO SORRY I JUST-"
"STEVE YOU CAN'T JUST WALK IN TO OUR BEDROOM, MAN, CMON-"
"YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO BE IN THE GYM FIVE MINUTES AGO I FIGURED YOU GUYS WERE EATING OR SOMETHING!"
"OH, I WAS DEFINITELY EATING SOMETHING-"
Nat looked up at him, outraged. "Oh, real nice, Clint!"
"YOU'RE YELLING AT ME, NOW? CAPTAIN AMERICA JUST WALKED IN ON US PLAYING HIDE-THE-SALAMI, BUT YOU'RE GONNA YELL AT ME?!"
Steve just threw the door back at an angle so it was resting against the wall and threw his hands up over his eyes, staggering blindly down the hallway to get back to the common area. "I'M SORRY OKAY?! I JUST-" He banged into a potted plant tucked neatly against the wall, but still refused to open his eyes. "JUST FORGET IT – ILL BE DOWNSTAIRS."
"OH, I WISH I COULD FORGET IT!"
"Clint, Stop overreacting!"
"NO, NATASHA, NO. I DON'T KNOW HOW THEY DO IT IN RUSSIA, BUT ONLY I AM ALLOWED TO SEE WHAT HE SAW. THAT'S HOW RELATIONSHIPS WORK."
"Clint, it's kind of funny, actually-"
"FUNNY?! I'M TRAUMATIZED! I DON'T THINK MY DICK WILL EVER RECOVER FROM THIS!"
Steve blindly listened to them yelling until he finally found his way into the elevator, opening his eyes just to hit the right button, then sank to the floor as their voices got further and further away. On the long ride down to the gym, Steve's blood pressure returned to normal and his blush faded. He managed to wipe his sweaty palms on his pants and stand properly, like a soldier, like a man… a man who just walked in on his two teammates doing….well….
Maybe everyone could just pretend it never happened.
"Sparring? Really Clint?" Steve looked almost pained. "You want to box against me?"
Clint was hopping from foot to foot, gloved and helmeted, punching air with an air of determination. "What is it Rogers, don't think I stand a chance? Don't think that I'm a rough and tough man, too? I can punch your lights out. Matter of fact, I will punch your lights out." And he gave another jab.
"Agent Barton," Steve put on his Captain Voice. "If this is about this morning, I want you to know that-"
"No this isn't about this morning, why would you assume its about this morning? Why would you just, oh, I dunno, JUMP to the conclusion that I wanted to punch your lights out for, oh, I dunno, WALKING IN ON ME AND MY GIRLFRIEND DOING THE DO?!"
Natasha, who was watching the exchange from outside the sparring mat, let out a deep sigh of exasperation. "Barton, enough. Steve apologized, it was an accident, I thought we were going to forget that it ever happened."
"Oh, we can forget – but we can't forgive until there's revenge." He turned his padded head to Natasha, who was silently considering swearing off testosterone for the rest of her life, and beat his chest. "Babe, you know that show we watched last weekend? The one with the kids and the space station?"
"You mean 'The 100'?" She looked pained.
Clint nodded furiously, "Yeah, it's like that badass chick says – blood must have blood."
Steve coughed from the other side of the mat. "You mean Lexa? Commander Lexa? You know she dies, right?"
Barton swiveled his whole body to stack up to Steve's. His jaw hit the floor and his eyes went wide with disbelief. "WHAT?! ARE YOU SHITTING ME?"
Steve pulled away. "Sorry, Clint, I just kind of assumed – everyone knows!"
"SPOILER MUCH?!" Clint seemed madder than ever.
"Barton, I didn't mean to –"
"NO, ROGERS. THAT IS THE FINAL STRAW." He held up a gloved hand. "Interrupting sex is one thing, it happens, but…this?" the Archer was fuming. "Just….Just put up your gloves, Steve."
"Clint, I-"
"YOUR GLOVES, STEVE. PUT THEM UP."
Natasha just stared blankly back at the two of them. "You're both idiots.
"I'm fighting for your honor, babe, don't call me an idiot."
"Fine. You're a sexy idiot."
He thought for a moment. "I'll take it."
Natasha sighed, walked to the exterior middle of the sparring mat, and clocked the bell underneath the ropes. The bell sounded, loud and crisp, and Clint immediately advanced towards his opponent. Steve look hesitantly from Clint to Natasha.
On one hand, if he pulled his punches, Barton would get too cocky and probably get hurt the moment Steve accidentally put too much real force behind a wild strike.
On the other hand, if he didn't pull his punches, he could actually kill a regular human like Barton – despite the smaller man's legitimate toughness, strength, and experience as both an assassin, a SHIELD agent, and an Avenger.
Steve saw only one choice.
Barton came in quick for a series of fast jabs aimed at the face, throat, and kidneys. Steve took every single one like a champ, feeling each area swell up with the force of impact -a sincere testament to the archer's strength. But as soon as Clint finished his round of inflicting temporary pain, and was looking mighty proud of himself for landing a few punches to America's Wonderboy, Steve took a deep breath.
"Barton, I am sorry."
Before Clint even had a chance to look puzzled, Steve delivered a quick and clean uppercut that cuffed Barton on the left temple. The archer was out before he even hit the mat, his body twirling with the impact and his legs turning to jelly. Steve delivered the punch and then immediately strode forward, catching Barton's torso and lowering him gently to the ground instead of letting him fall.
Steve looked at Natasha who was trying desperately to hide her smirk. "No concussion," he promised. "Probably a bruised jawbone, maybe a lump on the head. Ice well. No crunchy foods for a day or two."
She nodded in agreement and continued to smirk, crouching over Barton and brushing the spikes in the front of his hairline backward. "Oh, hon." She whispered. "You never know when to quit."
Steve chuckled lightly, and then sobered up immediately. It was just he and the Russian, now. "Natasha, I want you to know I am very, very embarrassed and sorry about this morning –"
She raised a hand, effectively cutting him off. "Rogers, it was an accident. Besides, Tony has walked in on us at least three times. It doesn't even phase him anymore. He usually throws a blanket at us and goes on continuing whatever he has to say while Barton goes purple in the face."
Steve blushed and squared his shoulders to reprimand Tony's behavior when he suddenly noticed the engineer's absence.
"Speak of the Devil, where is Tony?"
Nat, still crouched, gave Barton a quick pat to the cheek before looking up to Steve. "I don't know, I figured he was out doing Stark things. I haven't seen him since last night."
"I know, same here. He barely spoke all day then said he was heading to bed at 7 pm. He didn't look too good."
"So nobody's seen him today?"
"I suppose not." Steve's forehead wrinkled. "I'll give him a call, see if he's feeling any better and wants to come down and spar."
"While you're doing that, I'll get Mike Tyson here to bed. Come on, killer." She scooped down to help a slightly recovered Barton to his wobbly feet. He still looked completely dazed, but they all knew he'd be fine in a few more minutes.
As Romanoff and Barton were inching their way towards an athletics bench on the other side of the room, Steve unwrapped his hands and spoke out to the cameras in the wall.
"JARVIS? Can you please call Tony Stark?"
"Yes, captain." And within moments, a pleasant ringing could be heard on the other line.
The phone rang once, twice, thrice, and then continued to ring until the seventh or eighth time and it went to voicemail. Steve was puzzled. If Tony was going to ignore your call, he would usually do it before the second ring. If his phone was dead (which was a BIG if) then it would have gone straight to the inbox anyway. He would never let it sit there, ringing.
"JARVIS, has Tony spoken to you at all today?"
"No Captain. Sir complained of a mild headache last night and retired early. He has not yet left his room today, nor have I been granted access to apartments. He likes his privacy."
"Well, I think I'll go and check on him, then. See if he wants something to eat."
"That is kind of you, Captain."
Steve chuckled lightly. "I may be a superhuman these days, but back when I was a kid, I couldn't go a week without breaking a 102 fever." A sad smile ghosted the soldier's lips. "I had Bucky to take care of me then. Tony might just need someone to bring him a flu tablet and a glass of water, but I'll gladly be that guy."
About twenty minutes later, Steve was showered and standing outside Tony's door. He knocked once, twice.
"Tony?" Steve called from the other side of the door. He had learned his lesson this morning about barging in too quickly. "Are you feeling alright?" There was silence.
Steve wondered for moment if maybe the engineer was just sleeping it off. After all, it was only noon, maybe he had a bit of a temperature and was staying comfortable in bed. But something in his gut told him to knock again. Steve had never exactly known Tony Stark, or any Stark for that matter, to take a sick day.
"Tony? I'm gonna come in, okay? Please, uh," Steve had a flashback. "Please be decent."
He rapped gently with his knuckles one last time, and then slowly opened the door, a pleasant smile on his face and a bottle of Dayquil in his hand. Steve had never heard of Dayquil until a few months ago, and he had gone on and on for hours about how great a cold medicine like this would have been in 1930's Brooklyn.
"Tony, I-" Steve crossed the floor of the room, suddenly shocked out how dark it was. The only light in the room was flooding in from the well-lit hallway. The curtains were all drawn, the bathroom nightlight was unplugged – even the red LED alarm clock at the side of the bed was ripped out of its socket and flung to the floor.
The second thing he noticed was complete silence. If the vacancy in Tony's bed hadn't alerted him to the fact that he wasn't under his covers, the fact that Steve couldn't hear him breathing would have been the next sign. He turned to the side to look at the bathroom door and noticed immediately the door was completely barred shut with towels shoved under the crack.
Steve felt his adrenaline spiking, and anxiety balled up in his stomach. He knelt down in the dark, and thanks to his abnormally keen vision, he noticed the edges of the towels underneath the door were a little damp. There was water on the floor on the bathroom. Tony was in the bathroom. Something was very, very not right.
Worst case scenarios starting filling Steve's mind, and he struggled to push them away and focus on what was in front of him.
"T-Tony?" Steve whispered hoarsely. He cleared his throat and called again, louder this time.
His ears picked up something from the other side, but he had to focus intensely. It was…definitely a whimper. So small, so frail, so quiet.
Tony was not okay.
"Tony, I'm coming in, please step away from the door." Steve gripped the handle, testing it to see if it was locked. To his relief, the door swung open easily. Steve stepped in immediately, even his eyes unable to see in the absolute darkness.
But he could hear. Tony's ragged breaths echoed ever so slightly off the cool porcelain floor, he sounded like he was trying to cry but it was almost too painful for anything other than a breath to escape his mouth.
"Tony?" Steve's voice penetrated the silence obtrusively. He heard Tony's breath catch and a haggard whine follow it. "Tony, I have to turn on the lights to see you and make sure you're not hurt, ok?"
Steve's hands fumbled along the wall, and Tony actually managed to croak sound out of his throat.
"St-St've, pl's no!"
But Steve's deft fingers found the light panel, and he flipped the switch, blinking to adjust.
Within two seconds, his eyes found Tony, unshaven and unclean, burying his face into a blanket on the bathroom floor, his whole body shaking with sickness and pain. After another second, Tony tried to raise his head to speak to Steve, but the moment his face was in the light, he let out a pitiful cry instead, his chin quivering and his whole body clenching with the effort of containing his sobs.
"..The light, please…!" the engineer was begging, and Steve was scared and unsure of what to do. Tony, however, seemed to answer that question himself. He scrambled, shaking and pale hands crawling, along for the floor to the toilet where he began to vomit violently, his face completely green and tears leaking from his eyes.
"Oh, God, Tony!" Steve threw the Dayquil bottle onto the counter and knelt at his friend's side, rubbing his back and wiping his forehead on a nearby towel, the cold sweat dripping down the engineer's chest and soaking through his wrinkled white T-shirt. "Tony," Steve looked lost. "What's wrong? What can I do?"
Without opening his eyes, only visibly wincing at Steve's voice, tony turned his face til his hot cheek was resting on the toilet seat. "Pl's…just…tur' da light's…off….I..h've a…m'graine…." And as if the words that left his mouth were searing globs of molten lead, Tony's face contorted with searing pain and he once again spewed bile into the toilet bowl.
"Oh, God -shit, Tony I'm so sorry!" he scrambled too noisily to his feet, watching Tony struggle to contain his tears, and then more conscientiously tip-toed to the light switch.
He had noticed the bath tub was full of water, hence the flooding on the floor. As soon as he turned the lights off, Steve stuck his hand in the tub and noticed it was ice cold. Tony must have been trying to numb himself. Not a bad idea, actually. Steve had only suffered from a few migraines in his childhood, but he remembered them as….well, let's just say Steve would rather be shot.
"Tony," he whispered so low he could hardly hear himself- but he knew Tony's oversensitized ears would pick it up. "I'm going to pick you up and put you in the tub, ok? Then I'm gonna give you some painkillers and get you back to bed, alright?" He listened intently for a response, and smiled to himself when he heard a particularly loud grunt that sounded an awful like "fuck it, alright".
"Language," he whispered back. He could hear Tony smile in the dark, but not dare allow himself to laugh.
Steve, his eyes adjusting quicker this time, shuffled silently to Tony's side and, ignoring the vomit dribbling on his shoulder, effortlessly scooped and supported the man until he was standing on his own feet. He slung one of the shorter man's arms around his shoulders grabbed him around the chest, walking him slowly to the side of the bathtub. There, he helped Tony peel his shirt off as carefully as possible as not to jar his head or neck. Luckily, Tony was wearing only a loose fitting pair of boxers, so Steve allowed Stark to have that amount of decency.
The soldier lowered his friend silently and carefully into the bathtub, his boxers splooshing in the tub and the only sound in the whole apartment the displacing water.
Tony's whole body seized up at the cold, but as soon as his head was submerged, he began to adjust. The water warmed up slightly with his feverish body heat and he let out a deep breath. Steve whispered, again so low it was barely audible, to let Tony know that he was going to leave for a minute and get Natasha to help him make up the bed with clean, fresh linens.
Tony replied, "…okay…." More of a breath than an actual line of speech, but Steve heard it all the same.
Rogers opened the door as little as possible, running immediately to shut the hallway overhead lamp off so that they could open the door without allowing that harsh light to enter the room. Tony was already in a searing amount of pain, and Steve doubted he had slept much. He needed complete darkness.
Captain America walked into the hallway, alerting JARVIS of the situation and calling Bruce, Natasha, and Clint (if he was awake) to Tony's apartment with clean bedding and any painkillers they could find. Something they had was bound to be strong enough to knock the engineer out for a few hours.
Within moments, the residents of Stark Tower were briefed, quietly, and the room was being prepared. Fresh bedding was put on the bed. Clint, sporting an impressive shiner on his left cheek, was going through Tony's drawer to get a fresh pair of pajamas. Bruce was setting up monitoring equipment and an IV drip since Tony was probably seriously dehydrated, and unless remedied, would likely increase the pain associated with his headache. Steve had returned immediately to the bathroom, checking on Tony who was blissfully numbing his whole body. Steve wordlessly scooped him from the bathtub, despite the quietest protest from Stark he had ever heard, and blindly removed the soaking wet boxers, swaddling Stark like a baby in an enormous fluffy towel. Tony was shivering slightly from the cold, but Steve was relieved that his fever had gone down substantially and that the smaller man was free of at least his own vomit and sweat.
"Tony," Steve whispered as he held Tony's wobbly frame through the towel. "Next time you're in this much pain, please just tell me and don't make me come and find you."
"Hmmmm," Tony huffed under his breath. "..'M fine…"
"I'm having a hard time believing that."
"…'mmmm, I woulda b'n fine…."
"Nope, still don't believe you."
"…yah, ok...prob'ly bullshit..."
Steve smiled in the dark, and after a final drying embrace, he propped a limp Tony against a wall, fitting him with a button-up pajama shirt that required very little on Tony's part; he then helped him step into a stretchy pair of cool silk boxers.
"…Geez, St'v…" Tony mumbled, his eyes still closed and fresh winces of pain blossoming all over his face. "Buy me…dinn'r first…won't'cha?" and he managed a classic Stark smirk.
"Tony, now is not the time for false modesty." And Steve walked him out of the bathroom and to a freshly prepared bedroom where all his teammates stood, attentively, and watched him without a sound.
Steve laid him on the bed and lifted his feet under the covers. In one large hand, he held Tony's pounding head at an angle so that he could down two of Barton's graciously provided morphine (they didn't ask how or why he had them) and a few sips of water. Tony swallowed the pills, and let his head be set down with such fragility it felt like being laid down on a cloud. Bruce patted Tony's arm just as gently, whispering to Tony to let him know about the IV and the blood pressure cuff that were about to be attached to him. Tony didn't even flinch when the needle went into his vein and the finger clip went on.
Within minutes, Tony's face went slack and the pain ceased. He let out a long sigh and was sleeping like the dead not long after.
Every team member in the room, although now free to go, silently reached the same conclusion. They all grabbed a seat somewhere in the room, no light to see by, no screens allowed, and no opportunity to chat with one another –yet they stayed. They stayed all day. They left the apartment only to go to the bathroom or to eat. Stark Towers had never been so completely silent for so long. When they came out of Tony's room, they would do a time check. The hours creeped by, gruelingly slow, but nobody dared complain. Each was immersed in their own thoughts and concerns.
An unspoken pact had been made by each and every member of the team after such a hard few years as Tony's family –so many times they had almost lost him, and always because of his own diligence to protect them. This, looking after him, watching over him….this would always be the least they could do.
Tony woke up only twice in the next 24 hours. Once to vomit, and once to sip some water with a few more painkillers. Each time he did, he had four of his closest friends immediately at his side, comforting him, caring for him, and applying fresh cold compresses to his burning forehead. He wouldn't remember the delicate finger strokes against his sweaty bangs or the gentle Russian murmurings in his ears. He wouldn't remember the gentle hand squeezes from a particular archer. And he wouldn't remember the strong arms cradling his head or holding his trash cans while he emptied the contents of his stomach.
He wouldn't remember these things, but they weren't done for the purpose of being remembered.
The next morning saw Tony groggily sitting up in his bed. His shaky hands reached to his bedside table, fumbling for the light switch, feeling the familiar tug of an IV line in his forearm.
When Tony switched on the lone bedside lamp, he took in his surroundings:
Bruce was asleep in an office chair next to the bed, his head resting haphazardly on a heart monitor; his wire frame glasses were bent at an angle on his face that was rather comical.
Steve was ever the soldier, his arms crossed defensively across his muscled chest, his back against the wall opposite the bed and his legs straight out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully, though a line of perpetual worry seemed etched onto his forehead.
Natasha and Clint had found each other even in the dark, it seemed. The Archer was on the loveseat. His head and feet were propped on the two opposite armrests, the sofa obviously too small for him; but still, the redhead was curled into a ball on his chest. Subconsciously in the night, he had tucked her under the crook of his arm so she was protectively situated between his body and the cushions.
Tony took in the sight before him, blinking fuzzily, the pain in his head hardly noticeable anymore. He felt a small lump build in his throat. This is the stuff he would always remember. This was his family.
Battle wound or band aid, they would always take care of him.
This was just a cute lil chapter, more of a common whump than a crazy exciting battle-induced deathly injury. I wanted a kind of short and sweet whump this time. Hope you guys enjoyed it and it gave you little fluffy feels
