The fifth time it happened was mainly coincidental and not accidental.
It had been his first day back at the Tower after he'd been released from Medical, and all he'd wanted to do was sleep for a week and maybe eat a few boxes of pizza and chug down a dozen mugs of coffee, and the fact that he couldn't do all three of those things at once had been the only reason he'd pouted (mostly at Steve, because he was the spoilsport who'd told him it defied the laws of physics and that Tony needed his rest, anyway) and taken the elevator up to the penthouse to pass out on his fabulous, fabulous bed. Compared to the piece of concrete he'd been stuck in for over a week, the large, cozy mattress in his room felt like he was laying on a cloud. He'd fallen asleep before his head had hit the pillow, snoring contentedly and not caring that he was wrinkling his suit beyond repair. His burn, thankfully, had begun scabbing and healing, and it itched like no one's business, but the pain was still a dull ache, and his chest was still wrapped tightly in bandages, but he couldn't really bring himself to care about the details until after his nap. It had taken more energy than he'd thought it would to get back to the Tower, even with the team's help and the pain meds. Everything was sore from not using any of his limbs for a while, but he figured it would only take a few days of sleeping like the dead and taking the meds (no matter how much he didn't want to, because they tasted fucking horrible) until he was back on his feet and annoying the shit out of everyone.
The only problem was, he'd woken up a few hours later, while it was still dark and not nearly late enough in the morning for him to even consider getting out of his bed, breathing heavily and heart beating rapidly beneath the reactor. His skin was covered in a cold sweat, hair plastered to his forehead and the back of his neck, hands trembling from where they were fisted tightly in his sheets. The remnants of his nightmare were still floating around in his head, images from it still lingering at the forefront of his mind, flashing in front of his eyes whenever he blinked. It made Tony grimace, despite their already dissipating strength, hiding at the back of his mind to torment him another day. He took in a deep breath, let it out, and gradually loosened his death grip on his sheets. His fingers were stiff and red.
He needed a drink.
Still trying to control his breathing, which was always something of a chore when it came to waking up from a nightmare, he sat up slowly, making sure the blood didn't rush to his head and make him nauseous. Maybe he should skip that drink; no way alcohol would do anything good for his stomach right now. But he was a little hungry… He'd passed out on an empty stomach, because SHIELD-issue food was not only tasteless, but also bland, and Tony always secretly thought Fury was bribing the Med-staff to poison his food whenever he was stuck with them. He'd managed to convince Thor that Burger King was chock-full of all the essential nutrients an almost-middle-aged superhero – such as himself – could ask for, so the demi-god had been official fast-fooder for Tony while he was on bed rest. It helped that Thor felt a shit ton of guilt for the whole "ripping apart the Iron Man suit" thing, even if he did look like a scolded puppy when they brought up the ripping apart in question, and that Tony had gotten over it when he was told that they'd found and brought back all the pieces to his workshop for repair once he was home free. Clint had helped by buying KFC and Chinese food and sneaking it in for him through the vents, if only because it was on Tony's credit card and the archer could stick around and mooch off the leftovers or whatever he'd bought for himself. He was a greedy little bastard and Tony loved him for it.
Still. On the topic of food. Tony needed some – preferably as soon as possible, if the groans his stomach was giving him was anything to go by. That required going to the kitchen, which was the floor down considering he never kept the penthouse kitchen stocked, which meant getting into the elevator because stairs were for the weak. And hell, Tony was feeling pretty damn weak right about now, but that was no excuse to use the stairs. He was a man of the future, and men of the future did not simply use stairs. It was blasphemy. So, elevator it was, which was just as bad if not worse. The lurching it would make would only upset his poor, poor stomach further, but maybe if he told JARVIS to try and make it go as slowly and smoothly as possible…
He hauled himself off his mattress reluctantly, patting the rumpled covers in apology, before turning and making his way out of his room and towards the elevator. The private one – the one that only he, Pepper, and Rhodey could access (and, on one memorable occasion, Coulson, the sneaky devil) – went through all one-hundred-something stories of the Tower (because Tony didn't bother keeping count, it was his Tower, after all, even if Pepper owned twelve percent and ran over ninety percent of it), while the public elevator only ran through the public floors and the Avengers' elevator ran through every story excluding the penthouse, roof, and Iron Man landing pad. It kept out all unwanted guests, which was nice (it didn't stop Clint from climbing through the vents to camp out on the roof, but it still helped). Hopefully, JARVIS would be inclined to help his darling, beloved creator out instead of be a total prick about him getting hurt. Again.
Thankfully, after stumbling through the dimly lit dark to the elevator, JARVIS seemed to seek pity on him, and the ride to the floor below was smooth enough that Tony didn't feel like puking out anything he'd managed to digest, which was a plus. What wasn't a plus was walking out of the elevator to lights that were too bright for his eyes and made him nauseous all over again. Maybe he should skip that food and just crash on the couch…
Except that couch had someone on it, he could see them, which was not okay, ever, because Tony was nauseous and he needed to bury his face in one of the throw pillows and sleep away the impending migraine, preferably for a year or so. He threw his arm over his eyes, groaning loudly in disdain at the lights (because fuck those lights) and stumbling across the room to the couch like a drunkard to his car. The TV was on – he could hear it – but the noise was low enough that it barely put a dent on Tony's hypersensitive eardrums.
He made it to the couch, collapsing on it as gracefully as he could to stave off his roiling stomach and pounding headache, legs hanging off the armrest and running a hand through his hair and trying to calm himself. He'd forgotten someone was next to him until they took over the hair-combing, and he nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise, but that just made his head hurt more. He groaned again, curling in on himself, and the other person tugged him forward so his head rested in their lap and his legs were curled up to his chest. It was definitely Natasha, if the faint smell of perfume and badass was to be trusted. He wondered for a moment why the hell Natasha was even up before deciding she was nocturnal and didn't sleep, because those were the conclusions his mind came up with when he was in pain.
Tony squirmed, trying to wriggle off her lap because he had his head in her lap and that was fucking terrifying, but Natasha had a grip of steel and Tony hated her for it. She kept his head where it was against his will, and let him bury his face in her stomach even though Tony had never meant for that to happen, ever, but apparently his body was making the decisions now, and it had determined that his terrifying teammate's stomach was a comfortable place to nuzzle. Tony Stark didn't nuzzle. He was going to think about how suicidal his body was in the morning.
And then she was massaging his temples, and, yeah, that felt fucking wonderful, but it was still terrifying because it was Natasha and Natasha had a thing about physical contact. Maybe she was sleep walking. Or something. Or maybe she'd woken up from a nightmare, too. He could believe that. He was just starting to get into the nitty-gritty and wonder if it was actually Natasha or if it was a clone or Loki in disguise (and wouldn't that just be fan-fucking-tastic) when his body decided that thinking was overrated and told him sleeping was way more fun. He supposed if Natasha wasn't going to let him back up and his stomach was telling him food was totally out of the picture, he might as well sleep everything off and forget this ever happened.
And damn, did he sleep.