Chapter Text
Tony laid on the exam table feeling like death, looking like death, probably smelling like death, and yet nevertheless stubbornly, indomitably alive.
This was normal.
Well, not normal. Accepted. A burden born with grim resolve like the weight of the world on Atlas' shoulders. Yinsen died, and so Tony must live. No matter how many treatments, transfusions, and motherfucking booster shots that required.
The white light blinding his closed eyes swiveled away, and Dr. Cho tapped his forearm gently.
He took a heavy inhale through the pain and forced his eyes open.
"How do I look, Doc?" he said with false cheer. Never let them see you sweat , that's what his old man said.
Helen saw though, she saw him from the inside every Monday morning like clockwork.
This week's x-ray appeared on the holo and showed his shrapnel unmoved. Good news.
His blood was clear of pathogens, poisons, viruses, and bacteria. Jackpot.
Through some miracle he hadn't fractured any ribs when a Doombot had thrown him into an office building hard enough that he came out the other side. Excellent.
And... his white blood cells were low, even after the emergency transfusion after the mission. Damn.
"As always, you look remarkably good for someone in your condition, Boss," Helen said.
"And Barton said you were a heartbreaker," he joked.
"Well, Clint didn't build me a five million dollar lab either," Helen smiled, offering him a hand up.
He grunted, his eyes pinching shut at the soreness from the battle and the motley collection of bruises he routinely sported. Being tossed around inside a metal suit like a t-shirt in a washer-dryer would do that to anybody, let alone a busted-up patch job of a person like him.
He rubbed his eyes and took a moment to slow his rapid breathing.
Life was never easy after the cave, but since the palladium poisoning he'd entered a brand new dimension of hell.
Autoimmune disorders sucked, and the side effects of the disorders sucked harder, and hiding all of it from the team so they didn't bench him super duper sucked.
On an ordinary day the symptoms were manageable. Coffee for his low energy, compression sleeves for his bad circulation, a nap on the shop sofa when got too hazy to stand. It was simple enough, although the ideal treatment was of course for him to stop drinking alcohol, stop working long hours, stop fighting murderous psychopaths, and sleep... at all. Thankfully Dr. Cho recognized the futility of prescribing him a new personality, so he at least didn't have to deal with any nagging from her.
This wasn't an ordinary day though, this was a check-up day. On these days he got poked, prodded, and jabbed with every medicine, machine, and miracle cure known to man, and then shambled out of the lab feeling like boiled dirt.
And if that weren't cheerful enough, he always had his next weekly appointment to look forward to, assuming no one in the League of Villains killed him first. More and more he wondered if that would really be such a bad way to go.
When the vertigo passed he stood up, and rolled his elbow length t-shirt sleeve down over the bandaged injections on his shoulder and the scabbed over prick from yesterday's transfusion.
"Welp, you've done all you can for this hopeless case," he said cheerfully, shoving his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans. "What do I owe you?"
It was a long-running joke between them, a small sign he'd give her every week to let her know he was okay.
"A latte from the commissary will do," she answered.
"Oh, is that all?" he laughed tiredly, rubbing his cold hands together in a vain attempt to warm them up. "I think I can manage that."
Together they walked to the little canteen on the main Avengers floor, and Tony privately hoped everybody else would be out enjoying the good weather.