Chapter Two

Tony opens his eyes. He is achy and still dead tired, but he doesn’t feel as bad as he did . . . yesterday? Has it been that long? Rolling over, he finds a damp towel draped along his shoulder, and he stares at it, wondering why it’s there. Had he showered? Tony didn’t think he had. Experimentally he sniffs one armpit and quickly regrets it.

Time to take care of the stench, he decides, and slowly gets to his feet, feeling heavy and dull. Tony hates being sick. Being sick is a waste of time, and he resents his body’s weakness. Bad enough to have to live with the Thing; at least that has a purpose. He sluggishly lumbers across the thick carpet to the bathroom, calling up gruffly. “Jarvis, shower, one hundred two degrees, massage showerhead.”

“Very well, Mr. Stark. Please refrain from micturation; I require a sample today.”

Tony grumbles as he peels off his grungy clothes, kicking them away with one bare foot. “It’s an inalienable right of every male to pee in the shower.”

“Corrupted samples skew the data,” Jarvis replies calmly.

Tony says nothing, still grumbling under his breath. The constant monitoring is one of Obie’s safeguards, and generally Tony doesn’t mind, but at the moment he’s got a full bladder, and standing in warm water is not going to help that at all. He showers more quickly than usual, scrubbing his hair and soaping up his pits and thick beard before rinsing off and stepping out.

He shakes his shaggy head like a dog, flinging water droplets everywhere, and reaches for a towel, but there isn’t one on the rack, so he steps out to fetch the one from the bed.

Five steps into the bedroom, he looks up and sees the woman standing there staring at him.

Tony freezes. A weird shift in time holds the moment, drawing it out like a long filament as he takes in everything all at once. Her high heel shoes. Her freckles. Her blushing cheeks.

The fact that he’s dripping wet and completely naked in front of a gorgeous total stranger of the opposite sex.

Jesus fucking CHRIST!

He yells, and drops his hands over his crotch, backpedaling for the bathroom door.

Tony misses it and hits the wall with his spine instead, and the woman starts coming forward which alarms him even more. Tony skitters along the wall, eyes wide. “Jarvis! Intruder!”

“Mr. Stark—” the woman tries to interrupt him, but Tony can feel his panic rising now, and he fumbles his way back through the bathroom door, slamming it shut behind him and leaning against it, naked and dripping wet, hyperventilating.

“Jarvis, who the hell is--!”

“—Mr. Stark are you all right?” Whoever she is, she’s pounding on the door now; he can feel her thumping through the wood.

“—The doctor sent by Mr. Stane--”

“I. Don’t. NEED. A. Doctor!” Tony roars, the sound loud in the bathroom as it echoes off the damp tiles, but even as he shouts he feels himself getting dizzy and he gasps for breath.

“Mr. Stark!”

“Respiration accelerated, blood pressure is now one-thirty over ninety-three,” Jarvis the traitor reports loudly.

Tony curses and yells himself. “Protocol One!”

“I am sorry Mr. Stark, but Mr. Stane has given the doctor Beta Two status which overrides Protocol One.”

“Well I didn’t give her Beta Two status! And I sure as HELL don’t . . .” It’s too much: the flu, the shower, the shock--Tony feels himself beginning to slide down the door, to lose consciousness, “NEED . . . a doccccc . . .”

The next time Tony wakes up it’s to a horrid nasty smell; he coughs and jerks his face away from the ammonia vial, feeling the softness of the mattress under him.

“You fainted,” a voice says, and Tony glares up at the woman.

“I don’t faint.” he insists. She looks askance. Tony didn’t know people really did that, but here she is doing it, head cocked to one side, watching him.

“You . . . passed out,” she amends and he feels better, having won this little battle.

“I had cause,” he points out peevishly. “Some strange intruder was in my house catching me naked and ill. That’s not an everyday event around here.”

She says nothing, and Tony risks looking down at himself, feeling grateful that he’s under the covers. His temples are throbbing, he’s on the verge of a killer headache and he still has to pee.

“Mr. Stark, I know you’re not used to . . . visitors, but I need to run a few tests,” she begins in a soft voice.

“No.”

“I really need to do them,” she murmurs. “A little blood and a urine sample. According to Jarvis, you’re used to both of those.”

“No,” Tony repeats, clutching the covers. He can’t think; his head hurts too much and he’s naked and this woman needs to go the hell away. She smiles at him, and it’s funny because even though Tony’s annoyed as fuck, a tiny part of him wants to smile back.

She settles herself into the chair next to the bed and he tries to stare her down. “Go away.”

“Mr. Stark,” she tells him, “In terms of anatomy, your bladder may be bigger, but at the moment, mine is empty and yours is not. I can wait you out.”

With a sinking feeling, Tony realizes it won’t be that long a siege.

He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, trying to figure out how best to solve this problem. He lays it out mentally in precise terms, because that’s what his engineering tells him to do.

Bullet point one: Obie has overreacted and sent an intruder. In the many years they’ve been friends, Obie has never violated the ‘no visitors’ clause, so all that Tony can figure is that his vitals must have hit a critical point. Given how weak he is right now, he can believe that.

Still, he’s angry. “Where’s Obie?”

“Mr. Stane is in Belgium at the moment,” the woman murmurs, pulling out a small laptop from a bag on the floor. “He said he would be checking in with you soon.”

Tony chews on this a moment.

Bullet point two: Obie didn’t cancel his agenda even though he, Tony, was sick. Tony isn’t sure if he’s more pissed or hurt. It’s stupid to be hurt; Obie is the public face of Stark Industries and Tony knows that. If Obie has asked him for advice Tony would have urged him to go to Belgium.

Weirdly, it still hurts. Maybe because Obie is . . .

Well, the only friend he’s got.

Tony shoves all that aside. “Who are you?” he finally rasps, eyeing the woman suspiciously again and trying to ignore serious twinges from his bladder.

She smiles at him, and for a second, Tony blinks, caught in the serene curve of her mouth and the sweet grace that lights up her face as she stands to lean over him, running a hand across his forehead. For a second, he remembers that same position, that same expression from another time.

“I’m Doctor Virginia Potts.”

“Doctor Hotts. Potts,” he corrects himself, flushing a bit. “You’re a doctor. A doctor. Why?”

“Because I have a medical degree,” she tells him sweetly.

“No! I mean why do I need a doctor?” Tony growls, although part of him inside is a little bit tickled at her comment. “I’m not sick.”

“You were and still are,” Doctor Potts corrects him. “You had an elevated temperature and all the classic symptoms of the flu. How-EVER,” she chides him, “Without say, a few medical tests, it’s hard to diagnose precisely what’s wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” Tony snaps. “I’m fine!”

“Mr. Stark, I respectfully disagree. You have had a serious fever for at least twenty-four hours now, and you’ve lost consciousness in a moment of extreme stress. Jarvis has assured me that I have Mr. Stane’s authorization to undertake whatever medical treatment I deem necessary, and if that involves restraints and a catheter to collect specimens from you then . . .” she lets the statement trail off, and the imagery it leaves behind makes Tony shudder.

His mouth is dry; this is more talking than he’s done in a long time. “Fine,” he spits out. “Fine. You can have my precious bodily fluid samples if it will get you out of here any faster.”

“Thank you,” she tells him, not ruffled in the least. “There’s a clean catch cup on the counter in the bathroom; when you’re through please wash your hands and I’ll draw the blood.”

There is a pause.

Tony gives a long, dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes. “Do you mind? I’m still naked here.”

“Oh I don’t mind,” Doctor Potts says quietly, and for a second Tony feels the heat of a full-body blush roll across his neck and face. This woman is . . . is unbelievable.

The fucking nerve!

He won’t admit that he’s got the beginnings of wood; better to focus on being angry, not horny. Then she rises and turns away, moving so that she’s between him and the bedroom door, and Tony frets for a moment longer before sitting up and scooting himself into the bathroom.

Finally, relief.

Once he’s given for the cause, Tony lets himself go. And go, and go.

He can’t believe this; first time he’s had company at the mansion, and he’s on a marathon piss, but when things finally end, he shakes off, washed his hands and stares at himself in the bathroom mirror.

Yep. Still naked.

“Mr. Stark, are you done?”

“I’m surprised Jarvis isn’t giving you the live video feed,” he yells through the door. “Yes I’m done, but I’m not coming out.”

“You don’t have to,” Doctor Potts tells him. “Just let the little wheelie robot come get the sample.”

“I don’t have to come out?” Tony is confused. He opens the door a crack and holds the cup out. Dummy takes it from him and whirrs away. Tony angles himself so he had one eye peeking out and his body out of view as he tries to spot Doctor Potts.

He can see the bed and part of the room beyond, but no Doctor. Suspicious, Tony closes the door again and speak. “Still out there?”

No answer. Tony waits a while and cautiously comes out, finding the bedroom empty, but laid out on the bed are some sweat pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Hastily he pulls them on and is about to go downstairs when a wave of fatigue hits. Tony sways a little, and leans over, bracing his hands against the mattress, not sure of what to do when Jarvis speaks.

“Doctor Potts suggests you go back to bed and rest, sir.”

“Doctor Potts,” Tony snaps, “is a pushy trespasser whom I did not authorize to treat me. I want that on the record.”

“Your objections are noted, sir, however, I think in this case the physician’s advice is . . . sound.”

Tony tenses, because although he hates to admit it, what he really wants to do is crawl back into bed. But there’s an interloper roaming around the house—HIS house—and this is NOT acceptable.

“Jarvis, what the hell is she doing?” Tony manages, still on his feet but regretting it.

“Doctor Potts is making chicken soup at the moment.”

“What about my urine?”

“That is not an ingredient.”

Tony manages a weak glare. “You know what I meant, smart-ass.”

“The sample is currently undergoing analysis down in the Medical suite and the results will be available in a few hours,” Jarvis replies.

“She’s . . . beta two only, right?” Tony asks, giving in for the moment and stretching out on the bed. It feels good, and he closes his eyes.

Just for a minute.

“Beta Two,” Jarvis agrees. “Doctor Potts does not have access to any of the basement levels or vaults.”

Tony sleeps.

He dreams. Most of them fleeting wisps of things he understands and recognizes: a green scarf his mother used to wear; a field of California poppies, a box of broken mechanical pencils. At one point though, Tony dreams of doors, and darkness lingering in doorways.

The darkness is framed in the doorway, but looms and grows, and starts to reach out in snaky tendrils grabbing for him. Tony can’t move and the blackness bulges towards him, threatening to burst forward through the doorway and reach him---

He wakes, heart pounding, and doesn’t scream although the gasp through his parted lips is loud. Tony gives a shuddery sigh, relaxing by inches as he lets go of his terror and lets the nightmare ebb away.

Footsteps. Another surge of adrenaline shoots through Tony’s system and he tries to sit up as they get louder. The woman—Doctor Potts—comes charging into his bedroom and he scrunches up, defenseless as she comes over to his side.

Alert.

“Are you all right Mr. Stark?” she asks, and her voice is so damned . . . concerned that Tony has to fight his first response.

“I’m fine. Why are you still here?” he snaps gruffly.

She doesn’t answer, but reaches to touch his shoulder, and Tony flinches. Doctor Potts looks him over, and he can tell she’s assessing him.

Trying not to stare at the Thing.

“I’m here because I’m not done taking care of you,” she replies, and her voice is more professional now. “I still need a blood sample, and you need to eat something, so I made some soup for you.”

“Jarvis can run the venipuncture cuff down in the medical room,” Tony snaps, “He always does it.”

“I would prefer to do it myself since I’m here,” she responds in a tone that makes it clear she’s not going to let him win this one. “But first you need a meal. How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

Tony thinks for a moment, distracted, and as he does, he notices for the first time that Doctor Potts is actually very . . . attractive. Tall, slender, light hair the color of new copper and pellucid blue eyes.

Then Tony starts to wonder where the hell he picked up an adjective like ‘pellucid.’

“Yesterday. I think.” He grudgingly admits, although he’s not precisely sure.

“Mr. Stark consumed two hundred and fifty milliliters of Red Bull and ten Doublestuf Oreo cookies approximately thirty-eight hours ago,” Jarvis tattles.

“I was busy,” Tony defends himself against Doctor Potts’ chiding stare. “It happens!”

“Are you strong enough to come downstairs, or would you like me to bring your soup up?” is all she asks, and again, her voice is gentle.

Tony hates pity.

Fucking hates it.

He grits his teeth and throws the covers off, getting to his feet with a defiant push. “Save the damned bedside manner for someone else,” he grunts, and with more bravado than steadiness, heads for the bedroom door, determined to eat and get this woman out of here.

It would be easier to stay pissed if the soup wasn’t so damned good, Tony realizes sourly. But it’s hot and fresh and the carrots are the way he likes them, in soft, chewable chunks. He slurps down spoonful after spoonful of it, and even breathes the steam in between mouthfuls.

He’s not a soup fan, but this stuff is . . . well, damn it . . . good.

Tony notes that the doctor isn’t eating. She is sitting with him at in the little breakfast nook, a bottle of water in front of her, playing with the cap. She spins it on the tabletop, letting it twirl until it dies down, then does it again.

“Stop that,” Tony gripes. “It’s annoying.”

“Sorry,” she replies and does stop, looking up guiltily. “Do you need more?”

“No,” he grunts, already planning on having the rest of the pot later, after Doctor Nosy is gone. “Why did Obie send you? I mean you specifically?”

Doctor Potts considers the question, and Tony watches her carefully as she finally answers. “I don’t really know, except maybe it’s because I work in the prosthetics lab.”

‘The one in Santa Cruz? Under Neil Cardenas?” Tony confirms sharply. He may not get out, but he’s kept an eye on his empire, with special attention on those areas of personal interest. The Stark prosthetics lab is world-renown, and cutting edge in the science of rehabilitation. Tony’s made sure of that.

“I’m about as far removed from Doctor Cardenas as you can get, Mr. Stark,” Doctor Potts murmurs. “I’ve only been working there for seven months or so, mostly in the biochemistry interface lab. Why Mr. Stane chose me over so many other, better-qualified doctors is a mystery.”

Tony gives her a long, slow look, taking her in from the top of her head down, and his mouth twists a bit. “I don’t think it’s as mysterious as you might think.”

As he watches, she blushes, and Tony notes that it’s a full, deep blush, rosy through her fair skin. Then he sees her eyes, and the fury in them makes him flinch back, so he rushes on, feeling a surge of panic. “Come ON; it’s a well-established fact that Obadiah Stane is a ladies’ man. I may be a shut-in, but even I know that!”

“It’s a vile insinuation,” Doctor Potts tells him in a flat voice, and there’s something sad in her tone too, something that tells Tony he’s hit a particularly sensitive nerve. He waits a beat, not sure what to do, and from somewhere within him the apology rises, brought forth by that tone with its hint of hurt.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Tony mutters, dropping his spoon into the empty bowl with a clatter. “It was a stupid thing to say. What do I know anyway, right? You still want my blood?”

“More than ever,” she replies, and this time when Tony looks into her face he sees she’s got the tiniest hint of a grin now. The relief that floods through him is huge, and he turns his face so she won’t see it.

He’s confused.