Despite his bone-deep weariness, Tony knew that sleeping would not be an option in the handful of hours before he'd need to leave for the hospital. There was simply too much stuffed in his head that would gnaw at him if given the opportunity. "Friday, give me enough warning before I have to leave that I can take a shower," he said distractedly.

"Yes, boss."

He debated what to do next, then realized he'd left the tablet in the office. He went back for it and checked his messages again while he was there. Mel had sent him some of the drafts, Bill had copied him on the message to the SI board, and Hill sent him the evacuating-to-the-helicarrier supply list and an assurance that Fury's contacts were finding out what they could about the investigation.

He settled in and started with the list from Hill, as it was the easiest to deal with, and was reassured that the cost was not out of reach even under the circumstances. He replied to that effect, then moved on to the drafts from Mel.

The press release about the investigation was pretty well fleshed out, though he had some comments and there were one or two things he'd need to run past Bill. Her suggested script for the press conference was better than he'd expected, with her never having written something for him before. She must have reviewed some of his past press outings.

The backup press release was little more than a skeleton, with a range of options to fit in the blanks she'd left depending on what, exactly, they were responding to. Mel called it a 'choose your own adventure', but it reminded him more of those things where you fill in types of words without knowing what the surrounding text was about. He only knew about those thanks to the Barton kids, who loved them. He should get some more for them. When he had money to burn again.

Finishing those meant all that was left was the message to the board and the responses from each board member as he or she saw it for the first time. Many of them were pushing to have a conference call that day to discuss the matter, which he wanted to resist but perhaps getting it over with would be best. He limited himself to one reply and suggested a time that evening, late enough that he should be back from the hospital but early enough not to risk missing the start of the mission.

He reviewed his notes, crossing off a few things and adding a few more, and realized he hadn't dealt with the backup drive yet. As he got up to do that, Friday informed him it was time to shower. He sighed and stretched and told Friday to return the office to its normal state as he left the room, tablet firmly in hand.

Retrieving the drive and leaving it outside Rhodey's door didn't take long, and he had Friday record his comments about it rather than try to write a note. That bought him a little more time in the shower, which he desperately needed. He even broke out the concealer for the circles under his eyes; he couldn't shrug off sleepless nights as easily as he used to, and he wanted to avoid any probing questions. Having to waste time at the hospital in the first place was bad enough; being kept there any longer than absolutely necessary was the last thing he needed.

He was on his way to the car right on schedule, only to be stopped by a female voice behind him. "Mr. Stark?"

He turned to see a vaguely familiar young woman. "What?" he asked brusquely, stalling in hopes he'd find her name before he'd need to use it. She was . . . the new assistant, that's right.

"There are some questions I need to ask you . . . but first you need to let me fix your face. Come here."

"Fix my face?" he repeated, not moving as she drew closer. If he was less tired, he'd have the energy to be offended.

"You look like a raccoon," she said simply, her fingers deftly blending in the concealer. "There, that's better. When will you have a few minutes to talk?"

"Next week," he said dismissively, turning away. "Excuse me."

She didn't try to stop him, so the interaction didn't delay him much. And it was for the best that she'd helped with his appearance. He'd have to remember to enlist her assistance going into the press conference.

The next unexpected encounter of the morning occurred when he stepped into the garage and found Rogers casually leaning against the car. "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Rhodey said someone needs to go with you and the team will need to be ready to leave before you're due back," Steve said patiently.

To argue would take too much energy and also time. "Then shut up and get in the car," he said shortly, sliding into the driver's seat.

The drive was absolutely silent, which was helpful for his headache but not so much for the anxieties amplifying themselves in his mind. He'd been too busy in the last day to worry about this last set of tests-or at least, the last planned set of tests-but now he was staring them in the face and he simultaneously wanted to get it over with and wished he didn't have to do it at all.

At least his grip on the steering wheel hid the trembling of his hands.

Rogers remained mercifully quiet as they were escorted back to a room and even turned his back without being asked while Tony changed into the stupid little gown and awkwardly settled onto the bed. Tony busied himself with checking for responses to his work overnight; other than a few more messages from board members, there wasn't anything yet. He sighed, dropped his phone beside him, and closed his eyes as he sagged against the raised end of the bed.

"Rhodey said you were dealing with 'a thing' yesterday," Steve said cautiously. "Has it been resolved?"

"No," Tony replied flatly.

"Can we help somehow?"

"No."

"I thought you were supposed to be taking it easy."

The reproach in Rogers's tone made him angry. "Life doesn't always color between the lines," he snapped, opening his eyes to glare at him.

A nurse bustled in, pushing a small cart. "Good morning, Mr. Stark, Mr.-?"

"Rogers."

"Mr. Rogers," she said agreeably, then smirked. "You'd fill out that cardigan quite nicely, my dear." She pushed her cart next to the bed and addressed Tony. "Let's get you ready. Which side do you prefer for the IV?"

"Left is fine," he said. She was already on his left side and the sooner this was started, the sooner it would be over.

She went through the usual routine of taking his pulse, blood pressure, and temperature. "Your pulse and blood pressure are a little high today. Are you feeling all right?"

"I have a bad headache," he admitted cautiously, alarmed by the sudden thought that they might want to defer the tests.

"I'll see if we can do something about that before they take you back," she said kindly as she began prepping his arm for the IV.

He let out the breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. He watched her expertly slide the needle in as if from a distance, abruptly feeling quite disconnected from himself. Needles didn't usually bother him, but this time he felt a wave of nausea and he had to close his eyes.

The next time he tried to breathe in, there didn't seem to be enough oxygen in the room.

Logically, he knew there was nothing wrong with the air and there was nothing to freak out about. He'd been at this hospital before, had done this entire process before, and everything was fine.

But everything was not fine and though he knew exactly what was happening, that didn't mean he could stop it.

He felt someone touch him and he shook them off violently. Then there were hands all over him and he couldn't get them off and his head was pounding and he couldn't breathe . . .

.

Random bits of light and sound filtered into his awareness, but he had no context to fit them into and they slipped through the cracks into nothingness.

Eventually he settled into his own body. He was flat on his back in a bed that wasn't his; the sheets were rough beneath his fingertips. He could hear people nearby but not close by, talking, walking, sometimes even laughing. The space around him was quiet, though he thought he could hear someone else breathing. Or maybe it was just him? He delayed his next inhale to find out and, sure enough, the other breathing continued.

"Tony?" a voice asked quietly.

The voice shook loose the remaining pieces of the puzzle that had been stuck deeper in his cottony mind and he flushed with shame at what he abruptly remembered. He would have preferred to remain unaware, especially considering who had witnessed the, um, episode.

He would have feigned sleep, except that the rapid uptick in his breathing had already given him away.

"Tony, it's all right," Rogers tried to reassure him.

He scowled. It was far from being 'all right', just like they were far from being friends. But he was becoming increasingly concerned about what had happened in the blank space between the last thing he remembered and the current moment, not to mention his concern about how much time he'd lost.

He tried to speak but his tongue felt like wool. "Here," Steve said, and something brushed against his lips. It felt humiliating to have to accept anything from Rogers, but he cautiously sipped from the straw anyway, resolutely not opening his eyes. Perhaps later he could pretend he didn't remember this part, either.

"What time is it?" he asked gruffly.

"Not quite three o'clock."

Tony's eyes flew open and he sat bolt upright. He had a moment to notice the lights had been dimmed and the curtains pulled against the sunlight before his headache caught up with him and he had to screw his eyes shut as the room began to spin around him. He might have whimpered.

"Take it easy, Tony," Steve admonished and tried to push him back down onto the bed.

"Get off," he said hotly, shoving the hands away.

"I'll find a nurse."

Steve's footsteps crossed the room and returned with another set of footsteps. Tony cautiously worked his eyes open to see who had come to torment him. "Hello, dear," the nurse-a different one from earlier-said with a drawling accent. "How are you feelin'?"

"Have a headache," he said with gritted teeth. "When can I leave?"

"The doctors haven't released you yet, so I don't know," she said sympathetically. "But let me get you some tylenol or somethin' and see if that helps."

"Fine," he said shortly.

"You can put the bed up if you want, just use the remote," she added before she left the room.

He felt groggy enough that lying back down just about guaranteed falling back to sleep and he didn't have time for that. Adjusting the bed was a much better option.

The nurse returned in short order with two ibuprofen in a small paper cup and another styrofoam cup of water, which she slid over to him on the bedside table. "Try this, dear, and let us know if it hasn't helped by the time you leave."

"Thanks."

"What do you remember?" Steve asked after she'd left again.

"I freaked out," he said dully, rolling the styrofoam cup between his palms.

"Have you ever been afraid of needles before?"

"It wasn't about the needle."

"Then what was it about?"

"None of your business."

"They had to sedate you, Tony. You've been out of it for hours."

"Did they do the tests?"

"Yes, eventually."

"Good. Where's my phone?"

Steve plucked it out of the pile of his clothes at the foot of the bed and tossed it into his lap. "Are you sure there's nothing we can do to help?"

He didn't dignify that question with a response, instead skimming his list of messages. The most pressing issue was that the rest of the board had agreed to meet that evening. "Pass me my clothes, I need to get out of here."

"The nurse just said you haven't been cleared to leave," Steve objected, not moving.

Tony sighed in annoyance and resigned himself to reviewing the new information on the small phone screen. Mel had sent updated drafts and an assurance that there had been no hint of him in the news so far, he had four missed calls and three emails from Bill, and there was nothing new from Hill. He wasn't sure no news was good news, but he had enough to deal with already.

The first message from Bill informed him that, as far as they could determine, the government couldn't force them to leave the compound, since it was the primary residence for the Avengers. It was good to know but he'd still keep relocation as an option, just in case.

The second message from Bill confirmed that the Avengers accounts, such as they were, remained available for use, unaffected by the legal drama that cut him off from the majority of his personal funds. Also, as suspected, the addition of the Avengers to the U.N. budgetary process was still ongoing so they didn't yet have an official allocation from that source. What was currently in the accounts was what they'd have indefinitely.

The third message related to the investigation; apparently the government was demanding certain Avengers-related documents, including all communications between him and the members of the Avengers team. His response was brief: Do they really mean all? Even what's classified?

He skimmed over Mel's drafts and forwarded the one to Bill to make sure the wording was on firm legal ground. Just as he finished, he got a call from Dr. Mann. "So what's the story?" he asked in greeting.

"I should be asking you that. How are you doing?"

"Better than earlier," he admitted. Either the ibuprofen, the water, or both had taken the edge off the headache.

"Despite what happened today, your scans looked good. Have you been talking to the therapist?"

"Not in the past few days, but yeah, we've been talking."

"Good. Make another appointment soon, and I'll have someone take your blood pressure again as well. I want to keep an eye on that."

"I'll be fine. I'm just dealing with some stuff right now."

"You shouldn't be. Your restrictions last through the end of the week."

"I know. There isn't any other option."

She paused, then said, "I'd scold you, but frankly I'm surprised you've been behaving as much as you have. Take it easy through Friday and I'll check on you in a week or so."

"You're the best," he said gratefully. As soon as he hung up, he crawled forward just enough to reach his clothes. He couldn't have done so earlier without risking an embarrassing incident of nausea.

"Was that your doctor?" Steve asked mildly.

"Yep. We should be out of here soon."

Getting dressed seemed easy enough until he had to budge off the bed to put his pants on. He stumbled trying to find his feet and had to clutch the handrail with some desperation until he was able to balance. He steadied himself before Rogers made it around the bed to try to help, though, which was somewhat satisfying.

He perched on the edge of the bed when he was dressed, his head spinning just a bit and he wasn't sure if it was the headache or whatever they'd dosed him with. But it didn't matter, because then the nurse was there with a wheelchair, telling them they were free to go.

Tony didn't argue about sitting in the wheelchair, a little glad he wouldn't have to stumble out of the building. "Giddyup, let's go," he said over his shoulder, then checked his phone again, keeping his eyes trained upon it.

Steve took his preoccupation in stride and didn't comment until they were outside and Tony gingerly rose to his feet and started patting his pockets. "I have the keys," he said, holding them up and making them jingle.

"Lies. My cars don't require anything so pedestrian as a key," Tony protested half-heartedly, eyeing the distance to the car.

"Allow me," Steve said, offering his elbow. When Tony hesitated, he added softly, "The nurses said you might be woozy for another few hours. I won't let you fall."

"Then what are you waiting for? Carry on," Tony said.

He insisted on riding in the back seat so he didn't have to watch the road or Steve's driving. By the time they arrived at the compound, he was feeling more steady on his feet and declined Steve's proffered arm. He made a beeline for the elevator and headed up to the kitchen. Steve followed without comment.

Tony was in the midst of making coffee before Steve finally asked, "What are you doing?"

He opted for the obvious answer. "Making coffee." He began opening and closing cabinets. "Do we have another thermos? Friday, did I leave that thermos in the office?"

"Yes, boss," Friday said.

Tony sighed, dug out two large insulated mugs, and set them on the counter. "These will have to do."

"Why do you need coffee?" Steve asked patiently. "It will be time for dinner soon."

"I have a dreadful conference call in . . . how long do I have, Friday?"

"Twenty-six minutes, boss."

"Also known as just enough time to make sufficient amounts of coffee and check on a few things before a conversation that is sure to be unpleasant."

"Are you sure you should do that now?"

Tony stopped his bustling long enough to meet Steve's gaze. "There isn't any other option," he said soberly.

Steve frowned. "That's what you said on the phone. What's going on, Tony?"

He gripped the edge of the counter and said fiercely, "Okay, look. Do you trust me or not? Because I do not have time to waste on persuading you that I'm only doing what is necessary."

"To stave off something worse?" Steve asked, a hint of sarcasm in his tone.

"I sure hope so. It's hard to imagine something much worse." He felt so weary, but there would be no time to rest for hours. He needed coffee, so much coffee. He turned away from Rogers and his suspicious gaze to finish dealing with the life-sustaining conveyor of caffeine.

Steve didn't try to argue. Tony quickly finished with his coffee and picked one up in each hand. "See you later, Spangles."

"Is there anything I can do to prepare for the mission while you're busy? Surely there's something I could do to help."

He paused halfway to the door. "Haven't even thought about that yet. I'll figure it out later. We've got hours."

"Should I bring you some dinner?"

"Don't bother," he called over his shoulder as he left the room. Once he was out of sight, he shuddered. His stomach churned at the idea of food; even the coffee might be a stretch, but he might not last through the next several hours without it.

He stashed his coffee in the office and paid a quick visit to his bedroom-specifically, the bathroom, and also the drawer where he'd stashed the tablet-before sagging into the chair and securing the office in advance of the call.

A quick check of his messages, a bracing swig of his coffee, and he was on the line with the board.

It wasn't the best way to spend two hours, but it wasn't any worse than the way he'd spent the day before, and it was about what he'd expected it to be. He drained both cups of coffee and longed for more well before the meeting was finally over.

His phone rang almost as soon as he'd hung up. "Hey Bill, what's new?" he asked, not bothering to try to sound upbeat the way he had with the board.

"I wanted to discuss the matter of the requested documents," Bill said briskly. "The answer to your earlier question is that classification doesn't matter. Any pertinent materials are required to be submitted for review."

"Are there any limits? Time period, or something like that?"

"Ah, yes, they are requesting everything in your possession from the time the Avengers were assembled as a team until the Secretary of State visited the Avengers compound to introduce the Accords."

"But . . . that covers years. Do they really think I'll have relevant material from that entire time?"

"Given your reputation for recording things . . ." Bill started, but didn't need to finish.

"Just because I record things doesn't mean I keep them forever," he protested. "I have retention rules, just like the company does."

"We will need to submit documentation of those rules to explain what is present and what is absent from the records we provide."

Tony rested his elbows on the desk and gripped his hair with both hands. "Everything," he said faintly. He took a deep breath and said more strongly, "All right. We'll bury them in documents, recordings, whatever I have. They want everything? They'll get everything."

"We have some time to comply, so do not overextend yourself to collect everything immediately, Mr. Stark."

"Are you telling me to go to bed, Bill?" he teased.

"I didn't say that," the lawyer protested, but Tony was willing to bet he would have winked if they were meeting in person.

"Good night, Bill. Keep me posted."

"Of course."

He spent a few minutes afterward making notes on the tablet, then turned to the computer and added a few things to the press conference script and sent the updated version to Mel. When that was finished, he sighed and forced himself back into motion.

His first stop was the kitchen to drop off his varied coffee receptacles. He checked the clock; he needed to set up for the mission, but he still had a few hours. In the meantime, there was another person he had to talk to and the timing seemed like it would be convenient.

He took a deep breath and headed for the Barton quarters.