Steve was next.

It was awkward, being locked in a room with Captain America and ordered to copulate repeatedly over the course of several days to ensure that conception would occur. The intercourse was mostly perfunctory, a strictly businesslike exchange between two disinterested parties, but it got the job done.

This time, Tony was as sick as a dog almost from day one. He tried to push through, to carry on in spite of the fatigue and the unending nausea. He even went on a few missions with the team, mostly to remind them that he had uses other than as a broodmare, but that rationale lost its effectiveness when he collapsed in a puking heap as soon as he stepped out of the suit.

Everyone else was extremely solicitous when they found out just how sick he felt. He was being offered bland food, massages, and hot tea from every side, to the point that he tried not to mention the nausea because the reaction was overwhelming. More often than not, however, he didn't need to mention it because the vomiting gave it away. And then there was the time he stood up from the table-the smell of lunch was making him need to hurl-and promptly fainted dead away.

The SHIELD doctors who had confirmed the pregnancy a few weeks before were most discontent at his condition when Steve brought him down to the medical floor after the fainting incident. He'd known he'd lost weight; it was hard to deny that when his clothes were fitting more loosely than before. But evidently he'd lost over ten pounds and his blood work wasn't good. There was talk of dehydration and feeding tubes and Tony reflected bitterly that there was one very easy way to solve the entire problem.

That was not, of course, even a remote possibility for the doctors. Instead he was hooked up to an IV, had a tube shoved up his nose and down his throat, and was told he was going to have to stay on the medical floor for at least two days while they tried to stabilize him.

Two days turned into five which turned into seven as he failed to respond to the variety of anti-nausea drugs they continually pushed into his IV. This time, though, he had visitors somewhat regularly, as Steve and Natasha both came to check on him at least once a day. Bruce stopped in once or twice, and Clint came once on the third day to say he was leaving on a mission and wouldn't be back for a while.

Tony lost track of the days, for he spent a good deal of time sleeping from utter exhaustion between episodes of violent vomiting. It almost might have been entertaining to watch the expressions of utter vexation on the doctors' faces except that each episode wore him down a little more to the point that he just wanted it to fucking stop.

But they kept that tube down his throat, kept trying to pump him full of whatever that crap was, and he kept bringing it up again. Finally, in an unsupervised moment, he pulled the goddamn tube out, retching as it scraped its way up his throat, and flung it on the floor. The few hours between pulling it out and someone coming to check on him were the most peaceful he'd had in weeks.

The doctors got the hint and didn't try to put it back in. Instead, they shoved a much thinner tube into his arm and up into his torso, telling him that this was how he would be fed until his stomach proved capable of accepting and retaining food.

It took five days of being on this new treatment before his blood work had recovered to the point that the doctors were satisfied and willing to let him leave. At some point during those five days-Tony was still sleeping a good deal of the time, catching up on rest now that the puking was happening less-Steve paid him a visit to say that SHIELD was moving him to D.C. for a while.

By the time Tony had his freedom (freedom that was accompanied with a dumb little backpack that held the nutrient solution and the pump to force it through the tube), only Natasha and Bruce remained in the tower. At first he had to return to the medical floor once a day to swap out the nutrient bag, but after a week or so he convinced them that he and Bruce could handle it just fine, thank you very much. Then he only had to show his face down there once a week for blood work; after the results were in, the next week's worth of "food" would be sent up.

He still didn't feel great, and the periodic attempts to drink some water (to test whether he could try real eating again) always resulted in more puking, but at least he had his mobility and he and Bruce could spend hours tinkering in their labs, mostly focused on an idea Bruce had for containing the Hulk should he run amok.

At least, he had his mobility until the feeding had the effect of allowing the baby to grow like a weed. His pants stopped buttoning at his waist only two weeks after he'd been freed from medical, and his stomach was visibly round after four. It was earlier than last time, and he voiced a complaint the next time he had blood work. "Everyone starts showing sooner after the first one," the tech said disinterestedly.

This answer didn't satisfy him, not when his t-shirts were beginning to strain across his stomach by the time he had his next full checkup. The doctor said absolutely nothing about his much larger size this time around, not until Tony interrogated him during the ultrasound. "That happens with multiples," the doctor said absently, looking at the screen rather than him.

"Multiples?" he repeated faintly.

"You're carrying twins," the doctor said with some irritation, turning the screen to briefly show him the two blobs. This was the first time he had been allowed to see any of the images or data they collected about him; presumably, the incubator-or carrier, as Natasha had said-wasn't supposed to care what was happening inside so long as the doctors said everything was fine.

Tony remained in wide-eyed shock for a while after the ultrasound, then gradually realized it explained everything. "Dammit, Rogers, you always have to go above and beyond," he griped, throwing a few things around his workshop for good measure. Then he just felt tired and more than a little sick. Two. What the hell. He slid down the wall to sit on the floor, hugging his knees as close to his chest as he could manage with his goddamn belly in the way.

When Bruce found him, still in that position, Tony looked up at him and said, "I'm going to need bigger clothes."

This need led to a new project involving material that could stretch to accommodate the wearer without the seams cutting off circulation-helpful both for Bruce when he Hulked out and for Tony as he faced the fact that he had no idea what his final circumference might be. Not the most pleasant reason to design one's own pants and undergarments, but necessity is the mother of invention.

Natasha contributed a few ideas about designs before she, too, was sent to D.C. to serve at the whims of SHIELD. Tony almost expected to be summoned to D.C. himself any day since he was well past the halfway mark and, based on his research, twins often came early, but the doctors didn't say anything about it and he sure as hell wasn't going to suggest leaving.

When he woke in the middle of the night to a terrible cramping pain, he wondered if the doctors knew something he didn't. He couldn't move so he had Jarvis call Bruce, who arrived and then immediately left again, returning with several doctors and a stretcher. "Tony, you're bleeding, so they're going to take you downstairs to figure out what's going on," Bruce told him soothingly just before he was hefted onto the stretcher. "I'll be right behind you."

It was premature labor, because what else could possibly go wrong? Since it was too early to allow the twins to be born, the doctors tried a few things to stop it and eventually the cramping eased and disappeared. They kept him under observation until afternoon, then let him go with a strong warning to take it easy and call for help should anything seem amiss.

There were two more episodes in the six weeks that followed, but each time they were able to stop the contractions before things progressed too far. He had weekly check ups at that point, since everyone was a little on edge about making sure the twins were healthy and delivered safely.

Tony was feeling no worse than usual when he showed up for yet another check up, but the person taking his blood pressure took a reading, then stepped away and brought back two more people to help with another reading. "It's still early," one person said.

"But late enough they should be all right," another responded. "Go tell the team to prep everything."

"What's going on?" Tony demanded as the original tech and one of the other people hurried away.

"Congratulations, Mr. Stark, you're going to be giving birth very soon," the remaining doctor said patronizingly, patting him on the knee.

"What? Why?"

But there was no response to his questions, only hands guiding him toward a bed, helping him undress, and inserting an IV. By listening to their conversations over him, he determined that, rather than stopping early labor, they were trying to cause it. Something about his blood pressure and risk of seizures. His headache grew as he tried to figure out what was going on-they had taken his phone with his clothes so he couldn't ask Jarvis-but soon he was in labor again and nothing else mattered.

It was faster this time, even though there were two. The doctors were pleased that his nipples began leaking fluid at some point in the process and very quickly set him up with a pump on each side to provide a first meal for the baby girls being thoroughly examined somewhere he couldn't see them. He'd caught glimpses, though, and he thought one of them had his dark hair.

He was stuck in medical for a week after the delivery so he could start to recover. They regularly milked him like a cow, a humiliating process that involved one of the medical staff manipulating the tissue around his nipples and then attaching the pump to suck him dry.

They also had him try drinking water again and when that successfully stayed down, he graduated to nutrient smoothies while they slowly weaned him off of the solution that had kept him healthy for months. Tony wasn't sure if this process was the cause or if his body just wasn't made for breastfeeding, but the pumping drew out noticeably less milk after a couple of days and only decreased from there.

Bruce didn't normally visit him on the medical floor-it made him edgy-but after five days he appeared, looking agitated. "Tony, SHIELD is gone."

Tony and the nurse who had been changing his IV drip both stared at Bruce. "What?"

"SHIELD is no more. Steve and Natasha took it down, dumped the files on the internet. The headquarters are rubble. Look!" He brandished a tablet he'd been gripping anxiously and showed them video of the helicarriers crashing down.

"I guess you're out of a job," Tony said to the nurse, who quickly excused herself.

If he was lucky, so was he.