Note: Here I make an attempt at X-Men characterizations. Fear it. Fear it a lot.
Warnings: Yes. See first chapter.
Dr. Henry—please feel free to call me Hank—McCoy was a mutant. Steve had heard about mutants. He had even read a few of SHIELD's files on the ones they considered dangerous—Magneto, Mystique, and Juggernaut to name a few. Beast must have been considered fairly benign, because Fury had never seen fit to pull up his file.
They were lucky he was friendly, a giggly, hysterical part of Steve thought. Because Hank was a large, blue-furred man who was easily as broad across the shoulders as Thor. He was not up to Hulk standards of size and weight class, but he was impressive all the same. The size, combined with a set of teeth that looked like they would be at home in a tiger's mouth, lent him a menacing air. Steve hated to think it, but the man looked like a cross between a lion and a gorilla. Except he was, you know, blue.
And wore glasses.
And a tie.
He arrived via helicopter, forty minutes after Bruce called him, and he did not arrive alone. His companion was a tall, beautiful black woman with strikingly white hair. She was also dressed strangely, in a form-fitting black outfit with what looked to be a cape that attached at the cuffs and collar.
She looked the superhero type.
"My name is Ororo Monroe," she offered, her voice deep and melodic. Steve immediately felt himself fluster under her gaze. He quickly offered his hand in return, feeling horribly out of sorts.
"Uh, Steve Rogers," he stammered. He waited a bit too long to add, "This is Natasha. That's Virginia Potts and Bruce Banner."
"And the child is Tony Stark," Monroe said, looking extremely disturbed about the statement.
"…Thank you for coming," Steve said for lack of anything better.
Steve was having some difficulty reconciling this girl with the man he had come to know. Speech patterns and general knowledge of the team was proof enough that the girl was, in fact, Tony Stark. Steve was still a little shaky on the acceptance bit.
After shaking Bruce's hand and smiling politely at Pepper, McCoy took the proffered chair and set about unpacking his bag. He looked improbably scholarly with his glasses perched on his nose as he delicately felt Tony's face. His appearance was definitely at odds with his professional behavior, but Steve supposed he had seen stranger.
Aliens. Giant killer robots. Okay, those were evil things, but they were definitely stranger.
Tony, being the contrary person he was, chose the moment McCoy tugged at an eyelid to wake up.
The girl—boy…man…Tony—struck out, knocking aside McCoy's hand (which probably only happened because McCoy allowed it). Steve winced at the strangled cry and lurched forward a step when Tony immediately tried to roll away.
A hand on his arm halted him, and he looked over to see Monroe give a minute shake of her head. Surprised but no less anxious, Steve looked back in time to see Bruce intercept before Tony could scramble free of the bed.
"Tony, you're at home," Bruce murmured, easily restraining the small body as Tony gasped and fought for freedom. "You're safe. You passed out earlier, remember? Just after you made it home."
"Bruce!" Tony panted, then clutched at the man. Had Tony been himself—physically speaking—Steve would have been alarmed at this clingy display. Right now, it seemed less shocking that a frail young woman was grasping at Bruce's shirt and hiding her face in his shoulder.
The brief time it took the girl to recover and shove away was all Tony.
"Sorry," Tony grimaced. A small hand came up to grab at the front of the shirt they had changed Tony into, and Steve knew he was not imagining that crestfallen look. An instant later, Tony forced a brief, unhappy laugh. "I was kind of hoping all that was a nightmare." Green eyes widened a bit upon seeing McCoy, but it was less alarm than simple confused surprise. "Dr. McCoy? Jesus, was that you feeling me up?"
"My apologies for startling you, Anthony," McCoy said in his incongruently genteel manner. "I was merely attempting to conduct an examination. Fainting is never a sign of good health, as I'm sure you know."
"Yeah," Tony sighed and sat back down with obvious reluctance. "Well, I suppose it can't hurt, right?"
McCoy took it in stride, settling back on his chair and cautiously reaching to feel at Tony's neck. It looked a bit intimidating, actually. McCoy's hand was large enough to span Tony's shoulders. He could probably snap Tony's neck on a whim if he chose.
Instead, he asked: "Any vertigo?"
"Not right now," Tony answered solemnly. "Just sick mostly. I haven't been able to keep much of anything down for a while."
"How long is a while?" McCoy inquired. He took a pulse, just as Bruce had done a little under an hour ago.
"Three… four weeks?" Tony shook his head, choppy dark hair flying wildly. There were holes in Tony's ears, Steve noticed. Several. At least five, all empty. (There were two in the eyebrow as well, which Bruce had speculated to be a piercing that had been removed. Steve was a little put off by the thought of that many piercings in such strange places.) "It's been hard to track time, honestly. Almost since the beginning."
"Other symptoms?" McCoy pulled a stethoscope from his bag.
"Mostly the nausea," Tony looked sick just saying it. It was difficult to know what the girl was supposed to look like, but to Steve, Tony seemed unduly pale. "I'm tired, a little achy, but I haven't been sleeping well."
"Insomnia?" McCoy inquired.
"Kind of freaked out about sleeping around strange truck drivers," Tony retorted.
"Deep breaths."
It was quiet then, no one interrupting as McCoy checked out Tony's heart, lungs, temperature, eyes, ears and nose.
"I'll need to borrow your laboratory for some blood work," McCoy said. Tony winced when the next case he pulled out opened to reveal several needles and vials. "I'm sure you have the tools I need."
"Bruce's lab should have it," Tony grimaced and held out an arm.
"I understand you have access to medical supplies," McCoy said, glancing up at Natasha as he tied a rubber tube around Tony's arm above the elbow. Natasha nodded curtly, and he looked back to the needles. "I will make a list of items I would like you to retrieve. If someone would also procure a pitcher of water and some ginger ale. We need to get young Anthony rehydrated."
Bruce left to get the drinks.
"I'm not a kid anymore, Doc," Tony protested, watching the alcohol swab brush across his skin.
"Currently, I believe you are mistaken," McCoy said jovially. The needle slid into Tony's arm easily on the first try, but he winced all the same. Steve could sympathize. He was sure he had given enough blood to scientists and doctors to last for a lifetime of study. "You appear to be no more than fifteen."
"Sixteen," Tony said dully. "That's what the ID said."
"You have an ID?" Pepper asked. Tony blinked at her, as if just noticing she was there.
"Not with me," he admitted. "There was too much risk of getting picked up by the police. They would have hauled me back to Oregon. Better to risk social services than that."
"You were in Oregon?" Pepper blurted.
"La Grande," Tony added. There was no mistaking that look on his face. Even in the feminine, teenage guise (or perhaps because of it), Tony was incapable of disguising that haunted expression.
"Any potentially fractured bones?" McCoy asked mildly.
"Sprained ankle almost four weeks back. I was stuck with crutches for nearly two weeks before I could finally ditch them and get the hell out of Dodge."
"You have a lot of bruising," McCoy said, somewhat severely.
Bruce walked back in, balancing two stacked glasses, a water pitcher, and a bottle of ginger ale. Steve quickly relieved him of the water and they set the items on the table beside the bed.
"I met some not very nice people," Tony retorted. He hesitated, then quietly added, "Shit happened."
"I see," McCoy said calmly. "This next portion of the examination may require some privacy. Anthony, if you would prefer someone else remain in the room, you have that option. Otherwise, I would ask everyone to leave."
Steve and Bruce had already seen the girl nearly naked. They had been required to strip Tony from soaked clothing a couple hours ago. But Tony did not actually know that, and there was no point in adding to the discomfort of the situation. It had to be awkward enough having all of them in the room for any sort of physical exam.
When Tony was quiet, everyone grudgingly filed out of the room. They stood outside the closed door, no one quite certain what to say.
It was Pepper who broke the silence, minutes later.
"Do you think we should have him examine the other one?"
"Might not hurt," Bruce sighed. "I should go make sure everything is set up for him in the lab."
He disappeared to do just that.
"I feel I should be assembling some sort of paperwork," Pepper murmured. "In case we need to create an identity for Tony as this… girl."
"If it comes down to it, Director Fury will assign someone to do that," Natasha said frankly. "I was not joking earlier."
"I really wish you had been," Pepper said in a small voice. Steve set a hand on her shoulder, uncomfortable but sympathetic at the tears and her sudden reach for tissues. "Thank you. I'm just… I'll just…"
She left without saying anything more coherent. Steve watched her go, feeling helpless and not particularly liking it.
"Have you spoken with…" he struggled to recall the name. "With Cassie?"
"She was uncooperative," Natasha said coldly. "And she made threats on her own life—Tony's, as the situation stands. I restrained her."
"Where is she now?"
"Handcuffed to the guest bed."
Steve was oddly okay with that. He probably should not be, but the hostility was contagious, and seeing Tony sick and helpless was tipping the scale against the intruder. (Tony being young and female were strong factors, of which he was aware his upbringing to be a factor, but it was difficult not to want to protect a young girl. Even if that girl was really Tony.)
They lapsed into silence, each lost to their own thoughts as they waited in the hall outside Tony's bedroom. Steve was so wrapped up in his concern that he was startled when the door opened.
"Is everything okay?" he immediately asked.
McCoy was grave and did not answer the question. Instead, he looked at Natasha.
"I require these items," he said, holding out a piece of paper. "However, I believe it would be best if you remained here with Anthony. Is there anyone else who can obtain these?"
"Rogers can do it," Natasha said, and Steve frowned. When McCoy said they needed to stay with Tony, he had assumed the doctor meant both of them. "Don't worry, Cap. Just show the nurses what you need, and they'll get it for you. They're not going to say no to Captain America."
"Won't Director Fury have something to say about it?" Steve objected. It was a juvenile tactic, but he wanted to remain here to be certain of Tony's well-being.
"He'll be on the helicarrier," Natasha countered. "You should be able to get to the field office and back in under an hour. Careful on your bike though. Don't break anything. I don't want to make a second trip."
Unhappy but unable to argue the point, Steve accepted the list and went to get his jacket. He hoped it had stopped raining, or he was going to have to borrow one of Tony's cars. The last time anyone had borrowed a car without permission, it had been Clint, and Tony had been shockingly hostile. (Actually, so long as they got permission, Tony seemed not to mind. And Steve recalled the car-borrowing fiasco had happened the day after Pepper and Tony had broken up. Bad timing all around.)
Steve had to wonder what kind of response he would get now for that same offense. For some reason, he doubted there would even be one.
The rooms were virtually soundproof, so Natasha had been unable to listen to whatever conversation had passed between Tony and McCoy. She was good at putting puzzles together, though, and she had her suspicions as to the topic.
Tony did not look like he was doing well right now.
Natasha had followed McCoy into the room to the sight of a girl with her hands fisted in her hair and her face buried in her knees. Her shoulders shook despite the blanket McCoy had apparently draped over her.
If she thought Tony would not react poorly, Natasha would have expressed her displeasure aloud in violently impolite Russian. Instead, she sat on the bed next to Tony, wrapped an arm around him, and tugged until he relented. She pushed her hands through his hair, gently dislodging his fingers. Tony shuddered and leaned into her shoulder.
"It will get better," Natasha said quietly. "I promise."
"How?" Tony whispered. It was one thing to know this was Tony, genius playboy billionaire philanthropist pain-in-SHIELD's-ass. It was another thing entirely to get past the youthful, feminine voice and the small fingers clasping at the soft material of Natasha's sweatshirt. Tony should have been a good six or seven inches taller. Instead, this body tucked into Natasha's like a child.
"I don't know," Natasha murmured into the soft hair at Tony's crown. "It just stops hurting so much after a while."
"Dr. McCoy wants to run a pregnancy test."
Natasha twitched. Of all the things Tony could have said, that one truly shocked her. She had plenty of suspicions about the small, pretty girl and Tony taking her body for a solo spin across the country.
No wonder he had attempted to chop his hair and grunge up.
Tony did not seem to notice the sudden ripple of rage that rushed through her.
"Someone in La Grande?"
"Among others," Tony sighed. Natasha's hand tightened on his shoulder. "By the time I got out of there, it just didn't seem to matter so much anymore."
"Would you know the father?" Natasha asked, perhaps a bit too mildly.
"I'll give you his address," Tony said bitterly. A violent shiver rushed through the narrow frame, and Natasha adjusted the blanket more tightly about Tony. "I'm done talking about this now."
Natasha understood perfectly.
"Perhaps you'd like to know what's been happening around here for the past several weeks," she offered.
"Shoot," Tony agreed. It was almost funny hearing something that was so Tony coming out of this girl's mouth. He was rapidly collecting himself, shrugging off Natasha's embrace, reaching for the glass of bubbling ginger ale. She wondered if he was thirsty or if he was just being polite about pushing her away. Natasha suspected the former. Tony Stark and manners were not often aware of each other.
"A little over four weeks ago you dropped like a stone in the middle of the kitchen," she started. "You were disoriented, and then you fainted."
"That was strange," Tony interjected. "One minute I was reaching for a beer, and the next, I was staring at a room I'd never seen before. The next thing I remembered was waking up in an unfamiliar bed."
"That meshes with our current theory," Natasha allowed. "For the first few days, the predominant theory was that you were in some sort of fugue state."
Tony froze in the act of putting the glass back on the bedside table. One similarity between this girl and Tony's actual face, Natasha noted, was that he was capable of making his eyes unbelievably wide.
"After that, we thought it was some sort of extrasensory psychic attack, that someone else had forced your consciousness aside," she continued. "Now, of course, we realize you have simply swapped bodies with a teenage girl who goes by the name of—"
"Cassie Morgan," Tony finished, visibly staggered.
"She never gave her last name," Natasha concurred. "For obvious reasons."
Tony made a soft noise. As Natasha had long since noted, it was difficult to read him on a good day. When he was sporting an unfamiliar visage, it was even more challenging to interpret the odd expressions and sounds he made.
She decided he was distressed.
"Where is…" he floundered. He was either overwhelmed or just flat out baffled as to how to address Cassie as a person. (He, she, Cassie, my body were a host of ways he could have ended that inquiry.) Natasha was not sure why he trailed off, but she took pity on him either way.
"Cassie is on lockdown," she explained. "Let's wait until we're sure you're healthy enough to manage it before we have you look at a stupid teenage girl in your body."
Tony stared at her, blinking dumbly for a long moment. Then, he broke down in a fit of hysterical giggling. Natasha watched him, waiting. With behavior like this, it was only a matter of time before an emotion other than frantic humor took over. She anticipated tears.
As usual, Tony liked to defy Natasha's expectations. Still laughing, a bit weakly now as oxygen loss took its toll, he slid off the bed and paced over to the window, picking up the water pitcher and an empty glass as he went.
He looked even more like a child now. Rogers and Banner had redressed him earlier, and, in typical clueless guy fashion, they had ensconced the petite girl's frame in a red button-up dress shirt whose sleeves had to be rolled up and hem stopped a few inches above Tony's knees. They had located a pair of drawstring pants that still just barely stayed up on the small body's hips. Tony was not a big guy by any means, but the girl whose body he inhabited was petite to an extreme, barely topping out at five feet tall and probably underweight, considering his current health issues. His clothing was never meant to go on her body.
Tony was quiet, and Natasha continued to observe. His hand was a little shaky as he poured himself a glass of water, but it could have been the weight of the pitcher. The other hand was rock steady, the glass not moving until he set it on the sill.
That set off an alarm in Natasha's head. Tony should not have set the glass down. After all, why hold on to the pitcher?
Because he wanted to hurl it at the large plasma screen television mounted against the adjacent wall.
The heavy, water-filled pitcher shattered, as did the television. Both fell from the wall in a mess of sparking electronics, water, plastic, and broken glass.
Natasha looked back to Tony before the last of it fell, tensing to interfere. Again, Tony surprised her. He stared intently at the wreckage, almost analytical in his scrutiny. Then, he looked at Natasha calmly.
"I really need a shower," he declared.
Well, if that was how he wanted to play it, Natasha was game.
"I'll get you some clean clothes," she said. "Storm is probably almost finished with her shopping."
Tony's mouth quirked in a humorless attempt at a smile. It failed, so he just nodded.
"I'm unbelievably hungry," he added.
"Bruce was planning Thai."
"I think I'd eat anything he made, even knowing I'll throw it up again," Tony said, this time managing a closer approximation of a smile. Then he went to the adjoining bathroom and shut the door.
True to Natasha's word, Bruce made dinner. He may or may not have been influenced by Natasha mentioning in passing that Tony had expressed interest in his cooking. This should not have been surprising. Tony had always been fond of Bruce's culinary skills. But a month of hearing nothing of the sort from their prisoner with Tony's face and a month before that, when Tony was traveling across the country on business meant Bruce had not cooked once for Tony since late summer.
It was too bad, really, because while everyone else was polite, only Tony seemed to show any appreciation. Bruce got a lot of it's really good, Bruce, or thanks for dinner, Doc. When Tony was around, he got oh my god, Bruce, this is awesome. Remind me to put you on payroll as my chef. You are never leaving my kitchen again.
So yes. Bruce should have expected it. However, Tony had claimed he was sick to the point that he was not keeping down solid foods. It seemed only natural that he would not be interested in eating much of anything.
But Natasha said he wanted dinner and that he wanted the Thai Bruce had promised earlier. Which meant that Bruce had to send Storm out on another shopping trip to the grocery because he had not been anticipating five extra people when he picked up supplies. (Thor had come rushing in with his usual bluster, but Natasha took post at Tony's door, and he was sent back to the living area, much chastised.)
"Please allow me to aid you, doctor," Thor offered, not for the first time. Unfortunately, while Thor was very nearly the other guy's equal, or so Bruce had been told, it was in battle only. The man was a disaster in the kitchen. The best Bruce could do was try to deflect until Thor grew weary of offering his assistance and turned to some other task.
"Actually, this is something I really need to monitor." Not entirely true. And then, inspiration struck. "Although, if you would put out some dishes, I would appreciate it."
"It would be my honor, Doctor Banner," Thor said in his typical, grandiose manner. "How many shall be dining tonight?"
"Uhh… you, me, Tony…" Bruce did the mental calculation while making sure the sizzling over the stove was only that and not charring. "Eight, on the high end. I'm not actually sure if Pepper will be back in time. She mentioned having some legal work which needed doing."
"Your world's need for written documentation for everything which occurs baffles me," Thor admitted.
"It baffles almost everyone," Bruce claimed. "That's why I'm a scientist and not a lawyer."
"That's why I hired a personal assistant."
Bruce looked up at the quiet observation. He had only heard this girl on two occasions now, but he immediately recognized it as Tony. The voice was youthful and high, though it sounded as though Tony was attempting to drop the tone into something resembling his usual register. It did not really work. The self-conscious vanity of the act was familiar, however, and there was never any doubt that, despite the strange girl's face, this was Tony.
He looked better, if still terribly frail. Storm had done well dressing the petite frame, keeping the clothing boyish and to Tony's usual casual style. Loose cargo pants and a plain black, too-large tee shirt made for a skater-esque look. Bruce suspected Storm had gone to the men's section of the store and went for some of the smallest sizes available, just to keep Tony comfortable.
Tony came with an entourage. He was flanked by Storm, Hank, Natasha and Steve, the doctor helping push along a rolling stand with an IV bag hanging from it. Tony was hooked up and clutching at the pole, probably trying to keep the needle from pulling on his arm.
"Pepper makes sure I don't do anything that'll get me sued," Tony added.
Thor's face lit up in a joyous smile.
"This must be Anthony!" he proclaimed, arms thrown wide. "Welcome home, Shield Brother!"
Bruce tensed. Fortunately, he was not the only one who saw the potential problem. No sooner had he gotten out Thor's name, then Natasha was between him and Tony. Hank had a large hand over Tony's middle, one more barrier between him and the threat of Thor's enthusiastic (and frequently back-straining) embraces.
"Tony's not up to any rough handling right now," Natasha said bluntly. "This body is… delicate."
Tony was no happier about the interference than he ever was. Even before this debacle, they had a bad habit of coddling the billionaire. Bruce knew he was guilty of this behavior, but he prided himself in being only a fraction as irritating as Steve could get. Whenever Tony was out of the Iron Man armor, Steve seemed to think he was terribly breakable. Perhaps he was—he did not have the kind of training he really should have to defend himself against their kind of enemies—but Tony was a proud man. He hated when people saw the weakness.
"He's not going to break me," Tony grumbled, pushing Hank's hand aside and plucking Steve's hand from his shoulder. Tugging the IV stand from Hank's grasp, he stepped around Natasha and flashed the demigod a smile. "Just don't pull the IV loose. Doctor McCoy will pitch a fit. He's a big old teddy bear, but his snarls are kind of scary, okay?"
"Of course, my friend," Thor agreed.
He swept Tony up in a warm embrace, more gentle than Bruce had ever seen him attempt to be. It was like watching a mammoth of a man cautiously handle a newborn. Bruce quickly looked back to the oversized wok in front of him.
For once, Bruce wanted to be among the mass of people, pushing Tony into a chair at the table and making certain he was safe and comfortable and there. But dinner was in the works, and he was not going to serve Tony a burnt meal for his first time back eating with their damaged little family.
"Pepper won't make it back for dinner," Steve announced. Bruce was going to have words with the man, because that was his chair, and Steve was not allowed to sit there. "She's negotiating with Rhodes' superiors to get him flown back here for a few days' leave."
"Is Happy with her?" Tony asked.
"I believe so."
Natasha was sitting in Clint's usual spot, which was fine, but she was acting strangely. For one, she was sitting at the table before dinner was served. Also, she had her arm outstretched, resting along the back of Tony's chair in a familiar manner. Her hand came up and ruffled through the choppy black hair, loosening the damp strands, not even pulling away when Tony glanced at her warily.
There were reasons for this behavior, none of which Bruce wanted to entertain at the moment. Tony had been reluctant to talk about his injuries and had not expounded on how he had gotten from La Grande, Oregon to New York other than to mention hitchhiking in passing. That, combined with the knowledge of the psychological profile of their unwelcome guest (who was still locked in the guest room), had created a picture Bruce very much so disliked.
Right now, though, he just wanted to feed his friends—to feed that slip of child that was his best friend—and be grateful Tony was alive.
"Captain, get out of my chair and help me put supper on the table."
It was impolite, but it brought about the desired result. Tony looked up, eyes bright with good-humored surprise. Steve was equally startled, his surprise more shamefaced as he hurried to do as asked. He collected the serving dishes and watched Bruce uncertainly, but he dutifully claimed his usual chair at the head of the table.
Perhaps this was a possessive side Bruce needed to explore, but for now he was just happy to have his chair beside Tony.
Hank sat across from him, beside Thor, and Storm claimed the chair at the other end of the table. It was rare when they sat down for a formal dinner, but this table was always ready for the Avengers to use. When Clint arrived it would be complete. They were already overbalanced with the three largest people clustered in one corner, even though they were outnumbered. At least the other guy had not come out. Four tremendously over-sized men versus three women—only one of whom came close to being physically imposing—just threw off the whole Feng Shui of the room.
Dinner was an awkward affair at first, no one knowing quite what to say. Tony was usually the chatterbox of the group, though Thor could hold his own. Clint could talk when he was in a mood, but he was usually a source of smartass quips and less a supporter of lasting conversation. Hank, Bruce knew, could speak for hours if one just gave him an interesting subject. At the moment, both Tony and Hank were being particularly reserved, and Clint had not yet returned to provide them with incentive to bicker.
Finally, Thor broke the silence.
"Forgive my ignorance, but we appear to have guests tonight."
Bruce winced, noticed Tony doing the same beside him. Actually, Tony choked on his food, and Bruce rubbed his back while he scrambled for his water to help ease the food down the right pipe.
"Sorry, big guy," Tony said when he had recovered. "Meet Ororo Monroe—Storm for those of us incapable of pronouncing that—and Doctor Henry McCoy, codenamed Beast, is it?"
"Henry or Hank is fine," Hank said, flashing a razor-toothed smile. "I must say, it is a pleasure to meet the fabled Thor Odinson."
"Likewise, Henry Orhank." Tony choked again. Hank laughed and accepted Thor's handshake. "You are a creature unlike any I have encountered in Midgard. I am pleased to know you."
"Dr. McCoy is more human than anything else," Tony offered. "Doc, feel free to explain the X-gene. Layman's terms, you know. Thor's not a scientist."
"Most of those who attend my lectures are not," Hank remarked. Thor looked at him, rapt, and he was caught. Soon they were engulfed in a conversation about mutants, mutations, and those comparable in Thor's world.
The debate lasted well after they had finished eating. It would have lasted longer still, but they were distracted when Tony reached over and grabbed Natasha's wrist.
"I need the restroom now," Bruce heard him murmur to the assassin. Natasha was on her feet before he finished the request, pulling out Tony's chair and not commenting when he gripped her hand like a lifeline. They disappeared down the hall, taking the IV with them like some awkwardly trailing security blanket.
Conversation ground to a halt after that. Hank folded his napkin neatly and tucked it under the edge of his plate.
"Please forgive my rudeness in not offering to assist in the cleanup," the blue-furred doctor said. "But I need to check on the blood test results of my patient. Thank you, Bruce, for a wonderful dinner."
"It didn't seem to settle well with everyone," Steve said hesitantly, afraid of insulting Bruce's cooking skills. Bruce was too concerned to be offended.
"Anthony's illness is not a reflection upon your meal," Hank assured Bruce. "Although it may not be a bad idea to prepare some dry toast and more ginger ale for our ailing young friend. He was most stubborn in his insistence for your supper."
It was actually very flattering that Tony wanted to eat something Bruce made, all the while knowing he would never be able to keep it in his stomach. Bruce had to wonder if his friend would ever be able to eat Thai again. It was an unfortunate sacrifice.
Note/Disclaimer: While La Grande, Oregon is a real place, I chose it at random via Google Maps and mean no disrespect to anyone who actually lives there. Any OCs in this story do not exist but for in my mind, and any similarities to actual people are completely coincidental. Mostly I wanted a place that was small, fairly isolated, but big enough to have more than a gas station and a farm. Since Marvel is generally set in real places, I felt I should follow suit. To a man like Tony Stark, who is accustomed to big cities, lots of people, and being recognized by most of them, a place like this would seem on the surface like a backwater town with very little to offer.