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Language:
English
Series:
Part 2 of Christ, What Now?
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Published:
2019-02-18
Words:
1,730
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1/1
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Desperate Times

,

Summary:

Tony’s attempt to self-medicate away a migraine goes awry and Bruce is left to deal with the aftermath.

Notes:

(Warning: drug usage/overdose)

Once again, thanks to Sally for beta-reading!

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

“Tony?” Bruce asks, knocking hesitantly on the door. He’s been under the impression that both Pepper and Tony were attending a fundraising gala in Brooklyn that evening, so he’s surprised and a little concerned when he receives a summons to Tony’s floor, especially when FRIDAY instructs him to bypass the lab and go straight to the man’s private quarters.

Receiving no response besides a small grunt, he pushes the bedroom door open and steps in. His concern grows when he sees Tony sitting on the edge of the mattress, hunched forward with his elbows resting on his knees, breathing shallowly.

“Tony?” Bruce repeats. As he steps closer, he notices there’s a sheen of sweat to Tony’s skin and he’s trembling slightly. “What’s going on? I thought you went out.”

Tony’s words come out in a mumble. “Might’ve done somethin’ stupid.”

Well, that’s nothing new. “Stupid as in…?”

Tony groans. “Head was jus’ hurting like a bitch.”

Frowning, Bruce lowers his voice. “You have a headache?”

“Did. Not ‘ymore…” Tony slurs. He takes a long, deep breath. “Don’ even have a head now.”

“What do you mean?” Bruce questions, crouching down in front of the bed. Gently, he pulls Tony’s hands away from his face to get a better look. Bruce’s frown deepens when he sees a small trail of drool running from the corner of his friend’s mouth. Tony’s skin is alarmingly pale and he’s staring straight ahead, eyes unfocused. “Did you hit your head? Where’s Pepper?”

“Jus’ wanted it to stop,” Tony mumbles. “Couldn’t even see straight.”

“Do I need to call Medical?” Bruce asks worriedly, running his fingers over Tony’s skull to check for signs of damage. He doesn’t feel any lumps and nothing appears to be bleeding, but he’s witnessed enough head injuries to know that doesn’t necessarily rule out a concussion.  

“Nuhh…” Tony groans, “hate Medical.”

“Then you gotta work with me here, buddy,” Bruce says, starting to get frustrated. If it’s not an injury, then maybe it’s an illness. He presses a hand to Tony’s forehead. It’s clammy, but not warm. He decides to change his approach. “Do you know where you are? Can you tell me your name?”

Tony seems to be having his own conversation. “Tried everything, nothing was helping…”

“Okay, you’re freaking me out,” Bruce admits. “I need you to tell me what’s going on.”

Still ignoring the questions, Tony holds his right hand out in front of him and stares at it blankly, as though seeing it for the first time. “Why’s my arm broke?” he mutters.

“Your arm?” Bruce is thoroughly confused now. “I thought you said it was your head?”

“‘S’broken,” Tony insists, still staring at it. Gingerly, Bruce takes the shaking limb and turns it over in his hands, watching the man’s face carefully for signs of pain. “It’s all split off. Look at all these pieces.” Touching his left index finger to each digit of his right hand, Tony starts counting. “‘S’got like one… two... three…”

“Tony,” Bruce says. He’s fighting to keep his voice even despite the feeling of panic that’s quickly overtaking him. “Your arm is not broken—those are your fingers.”

Lifting his head slowly, Tony locks eyes with Bruce, looking genuinely worried. “You sure?”

Now that he’s staring right at Tony’s face, Bruce realizes that his friend’s pupils are shrunk to pinpoints. Finally the pieces click into place—the pale skin, the confusion, the shakiness, the sweating. Bruce’s eyes narrow. “Did you take something?”

The only answer Tony gives is to vomit his dinner all down the front of his sweaty t-shirt.

“Shit!” Bruce yelps, jumping back a bit to get out of the line of fire. But when Tony heaves again onto the floor and starts to tumble forward, Bruce quickly grabs his shoulders to hold him upright. “Okay, okay, you’re alright,” he assures.

As Bruce supports his friend, he side-eyes the trash can across the room. He considers running over to grab it, but the carpet is already ruined and he doesn’t think Tony can hold himself up at the moment without help.

Instead, Bruce opts to sit beside him on the bed. With a moan, Tony immediately slumps against his side, eyes closed.

“Hey, hey, no sleeping,” Bruce says, pushing the man into a more upright position. “I need to know what you took.”

Tony’s eyelids flutter a bit but he doesn’t quite manage to get them back open. “I fucked up,” he admits weakly.

Now Bruce is scared. “What did you take?” he demands.

“Pill…” Tony rasps out. “Super pill.”

Bruce rolls his eyes, urgently tapping the other man’s cheek. “C’mon, I need specifics. What kind? What dosage? How many?”

“Painkiller. Jus’ a half,” Tony mutters, and then gags again. More bile runs down his shirt causing Bruce to grimace.

“You know, I’m having a hard time believing that,” Bruce retorts. He pulls a wad of tissues from the box next to the bed and wipes Tony’s face.

“If I may,” FRIDAY interrupts. “Boss is telling the truth. He has taken only half a pill, however the pill in question was SDP-542.”

“You took some of Steve’s painkillers?!” Bruce exclaims. He’s honestly surprised Tony’s even getting words out at the moment, given their creation nearly knocked the super soldier on his ass last week during the pill’s latest trial run. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

Eyes still closed, Tony murmurs, “Was thinkin’ my head was gonna ‘plode. Ran out of Imitrex. Fucking migraine.”

“Jesus Christ...” Bruce breathes out. “Steve’s metabolism is at least four times the speed of yours! There’s no way you can process all of that—God, your liver!”

“Hindsight.” With a small moan, Tony collapses back against Bruce’s side.

“FRIDAY, call Medical,” Bruce instructs. “Get a team up here. Tell them it’s an opioid overdose from an experimental medication.”

There’s a brief pause. “Medical staff has been alerted,” FRIDAY reports. “ETA twelve minutes. In the meantime, emergency protocol is to keep the victim conscious, if at all possible, and to maintain an open airway until help arrives.”

“Okay, we can work with that,” Bruce mutters. “Right, Tony?”

Tony grunts. “Dizzy.”

Bruce sighs. “Alright, let’s get you lying down.” Still holding Tony’s shoulders, the scientist gets to his feet, avoiding the puddle of vomit, and starts to maneuver Tony down onto the mattress. He stops, frowning. “On second thought, let’s get this shirt off of you first.”

That turns out to be easier said than done, with Tony’s floppy limbs not cooperating at all with Bruce’s efforts. Eventually he manages to get the vomit-soaked shirt removed and Tony laying on his side in the recovery position. He presses two fingers to the side of Tony’s neck and feels his pulse beating sluggishly.

Bruce sits on the edge of the bed in front of Tony’s knees to ensure he doesn’t roll in either direction. His mind starts running through the next steps. He knows the medics will need as much information about the substance as possible, so he grabs Tony’s tablet from the nightstand and opens their shared research folder to pull up data from the SDP project.

The current calculations are all based on Steve’s body composition, but with some assistance from FRIDAY, he quickly adjusts the ratios to fit Tony’s stats. Factoring in his friend’s metabolic rate, body mass, and organ functionality, things are not looking great.

Bruce glances up at the ceiling. “How long on that med team again?”

“Current ETA is 3.2 minutes,” FRIDAY replies. “Also be aware that Ms. Potts has been informed of the situation and is currently en route home.”

Eyes still closed, Tony mutters into the pillow, “Aw shit…”

Bruce rolls his eyes, but he’s a little relieved to see Tony is still conscious enough to care. “I think you have bigger problems at the moment than an angry fiancée.”

Tony groans again and then gags. Bruce puts a hand on his back to keep him supported as bile spills down the pillow. “Just hang in there, buddy,” he says with a sigh.

X

Forty minutes later, Tony is sitting propped up in one of the Medbay beds, looking quite miserable with an oxygen cannula in his nose, wires and heart monitor electrodes covering his bare chest, and an IV stuck in his arm. His breathing is steadier now, but his skin is flushed and he’s shivering, nervously eyeing the plastic bin Bruce is holding.

At the sound of heels clicking on the tile, Bruce glances up from where he’s sitting next to the bed to see Pepper rushing into the room. She shakes off her coat and tosses it along with her handbag and scarf onto the empty bed nearest the door. Her gaze travels quickly from Tony over to Bruce.

“How is he?” she asks as she strides over. Her face is painted with concern.

“He’s stabilized now,” Bruce replies. “He’s got a fever and chills from the Naloxone and he’s pretty nauseous at the moment, but the doctor thinks there will be no permanent damage.”

Pepper sits down in the plastic chair on the opposite side of the bed. “Seriously, Tony?” she says quietly. “You said it was just a headache. I leave you alone for four hours, and FRIDAY informs me that you’ve overdosed on some experimental drug?”

Tony moans. “Sorry...”

In his friend’s defense, Bruce adds, “It wasn’t intentional. He ran out of his migraine medication and got creative.”

“Desperate times,” Tony slurs.

“You could have called,” Pepper points out. “I would have come home.”

“Or you could have called me earlier,” Bruce throws in. “Or any of the other like, eight inhabitants of this compound. I’m sure anyone’s help would have been better than this.”

“Probably not Barton’s,” Tony mumbles, then burps sickly. Bruce immediately holds the basin back under his chin, but Tony swallows hard and shakes his head slightly.

After a few moments without incident, Bruce removes the bin and Tony slumps back against the pillows. “How was the gala, honey?” Tony murmurs.

Pepper sighs and stretches out her hand to gently stroke his face. Tony makes a small, contented noise in the back of his throat. “Don’t think for a second we’re done talking about this,” she says, “but for now, I’ll let you sleep.”

Eyes half-closed, Tony gives a weak thumbs up. “Love you too,” he breathes out.

Notes:

If you're curious about the making of SDP, check out our other fic, Super Duper Side Effects (this story occurs between chapters 4 and 5 of that fic).

Comments are always appreciated! Come and hang out on tumblr if you'd like: whumphoarder & awesomesockes

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