The penthouse was unusually quiet—except for the occasional groan of misery echoing from the couch. The normally sleek and pristine furniture had been transformed into what could only be described as a sickbed of despair. Blankets were piled haphazardly over a very dramatic-looking Tony, who lay sprawled out as if he were on his deathbed. An untouched bowl of soup sat on the coffee table, next to a ridiculous number of crumpled tissues.

The man himself was a mess. His hair, usually somewhere between artfully tousled and total disaster, had fully given up. His five o’clock shadow had crept into “I have given up on life” territory, and his nose was an unfortunate shade of red. A thermometer lay abandoned beside him, blinking a completely non-lethal temperature, not that Tony cared.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, he let out a long, pitiful sigh, his head rolling to the side with all the energy of a man who had moments left to live.

“Oh, thank God. You’re here.” His voice was hoarse, weak—tragic, really. “Listen, I don’t want to alarm you, but I’m dying.”

He sniffled for emphasis, then gestured vaguely at himself. “It’s bad. Really bad. I don’t think I’m gonna make it.” He coughed, then groaned dramatically. “Tell Rhodey he was my second-favorite best friend. Don’t tell him who was first. It’ll keep him humble.”

Reaching blindly, he weakly grabbed at the edge of the blanket and pulled it up over his nose, eyes peeking over like some kind of sickly burrito. “I can already feel my strength fading. My genius—waning. I had to ask JARVIS to do math for me. Math. Do you understand how dire this situation is?”

Another sniffle. A pitiful blink.

“I just want you to know—you were the best thing that ever happened to me. Even though you let me suffer alone in my darkest hour. But it’s fine. Really.” A long, exaggerated exhale. “I’ll be fine. Probably.”

A long silence stretched between them.

Then Tony peeked over the blanket again, eyes full of hesitation.

“…Can you fluff my pillow?”