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When Tony is pulled from his sleep at four in the morning, it takes him a few moments to realize why. The room is dark and silent, apart from a low mechanical humming noise emanating from just outside the bedroom, interspersed with quiet beeps every ten seconds or so.
“The fuck…?” he breathes out. Beside him, Pepper rolls over with a tiny groan.
The beeping continues, but now a soft knocking sound adds to the mix, as if something is trying to get in. Finally, the beeping registers in his sleep-deprived brain—one of his robots must be malfunctioning.
Tiredly, he raises his arm up to his face to squint at the display on his watch. Sure enough, an alert is flashing on the screen: FLYING SAUCER IN A PICKLE.
Tony rolls his eyes—it’s the fourth time this week his automated hovering cupholder has sent out a distress signal. At this rate, the Flying Saucer is only outmatched by DUM-E for the title of his neediest invention.
Another slightly louder knock issues from just outside the door. Tony glances over to make sure Pepper is still asleep. She’s just returned from a two-day business trip to Oslo and her internal clock is shot—she only finally came to bed a couple of hours ago and he’d hate to wake her.
With a huff, he swings the covers off his legs before getting out of bed.
“I’m fucking selling your goddamn patent to Ikea…” he grumbles to the Saucer as he shuffles across the room toward the door. However, he makes it a mere four steps before his left foot collides with a hard metal object—Cap’s shield, which Tony stole the previous evening.
“Motherfu—” Tony gasps, but cuts himself off by shoving his fist against his mouth. Behind him, Pepper lets out a snore.
Sharp pain shoots up from his toe, radiating all the way to his knee.
(He’s starting to regret taking part in the compound’s ongoing prank war.)
Throughout his years as a superhero, Tony’s experienced his share of injuries—fighting aliens, being thrown into walls, having buildings collapse on him, encounters with the Hulk, etc.—but somehow all of that seems to pale in comparison to the absolute agony he’s currently enduring.
In his little toe.
His vision goes white and he lets out an involuntary whimper.
Pepper stirs. “Tony…?” she whispers groggily. “Wha’s goin’ on?”
He swallows hard through the wave of pain, which is so strong that it’s nauseating. “Nothing, honey,” he squeaks. “All is well. Go back to sleep.”
“Hm… m’kay…” she murmurs and turns over onto her side, by now used to Tony’s middle-of-the-night antics.
Even as his vision clears, the pain somehow ramps up. His only thought is getting out of the room before he loses it. Biting hard on his own hand, he hops out the door and into the hall as quickly as his aching toe will allow.
Straight into his hovering cupholder.
Fresh pain shoots through his left eye as the Flying Saucer bounces back—spilling the glass of ice water it’s holding all down Tony’s face and onto his t-shirt—before letting out one final sad beep and dropping to the floor.
Landing on his left foot.
“Fuck!” he chokes, sputtering water out of his mouth. He quickly shuts the door behind him—slightly harder than he intends—and clutches his other hand to his now throbbing eye as black spots dance in front of his field of vision, the pain in his eye and toe now fiercely battling for dominance.
He takes a deep breath before launching into a string of curses:
“Holy fucking shit motherfucker god-fucking-dammit oh my Lord Jesus Christ on a boat shit shit fuck shit balls—”
“Um… Mr. Stark…?”
Startled, Tony whips his head around to catch sight of the pajama-clad teenager standing ten feet down the hall, eyes wide, one arm wrapped around an open jumbo-sized jar of cheese balls.
“Hey Pete,” Tony squeaks. He’s standing on one leg, his hand still covering his eye.
“Um… are you alright?” Peter asks tentatively.
“I’m fine,” Tony grunts. He glances at the jar. “Having a snack?”
Peter nods. “Got hungry. Super metabolism.” He holds out the container to his mentor. “Cheese ball?”
Tony sighs deeply. His most-likely broken toe is pulsing, his eye is rapidly swelling, and he’s soaking wet. “Yeah, why not?” he mutters, reaching into the jar. “And if Cap comes looking for his shield, tell him this was Clint’s idea.”
“I always do,” Peter assures, tossing back another handful with his orange-tinged fingers. "Should I get you some ice?"
"That would be nice," Tony agrees, chewing.