The automatic jet hummed as it glided through the night sky, its interior dimly lit by soft overhead lights. It was sleek, fast, and—thanks to some oversight—completely devoid of a bathroom.
This hadn’t seemed like a problem at first. The Avengers were used to tough missions, long flights, and inconvenient conditions. But eight hours in, it was becoming a serious issue.
Steve Rogers was the first to show signs of distress. Being a super soldier meant enhanced metabolism, which in turn meant needing to process liquids faster than a normal person. He had held out admirably, but around the six-hour mark, the first signs of discomfort started creeping in—tensed shoulders, knees bouncing, jaw clenched.
By hour eight, the team was actively trying to help him manage.
“Just don’t think about it,” Natasha offered, lounging in her seat.
Steve shot her a glare. “That’s not helping.”
“We could, uh, distract you?” Clint suggested. “Think of something else. What about that time we got stranded in the Alps?”
Steve groaned. “That is not a better memory.”
Bucky, sitting beside him, was doing his best to shield his friend from the rest of the team’s amusement. “You’re doin’ great, pal. Just keep breathing.”
Bruce, ever the scientist, was analyzing the situation as if Steve was an interesting case study. “Technically, if you stay very still, your body will slow the urge—”
“Bruce,” Steve said through gritted teeth.
“Right. Not helpful.”
The group was so focused on helping Steve that they failed to notice the other person quietly shifting in his seat.
Tony Stark had been uncharacteristically silent for the last thirty minutes. Normally, he’d be making sarcastic comments or teasing Steve about his predicament, but instead, he had leaned back in his seat, arms crossed tightly, his legs stiff. If anyone had been paying attention, they might have noticed his fingers tapping anxiously against his arm or the way he swallowed hard every few seconds.
He was not okay.
Tony prided himself on keeping up with the Avengers, despite being the only non-super-powered member. Sure, he had the suit, but his body was as human as it got. Which meant that while Steve was suffering from enhanced bladder capacity, Tony was suffering from a very regular, very urgent need to pee.
And nobody had noticed.
Which, honestly, was fine.
Tony was glad Peter wasn’t here—if the kid had been on this flight, he would have needed to pee every three hours and would have whined about it the entire time. Peter was bad at hiding things. Tony, on the other hand, could endure.
Probably.
Except his body wasn’t cooperating.
The jet’s vibrations weren’t helping. The steady hum of the engines sent an all-too-familiar reminder through his body, making it impossible to ignore the dull ache in his lower abdomen. He really had to go.
But everyone was so focused on Steve that Tony figured he could just wait it out. He wasn’t going to be the second person to admit defeat.
He shifted again, subtly pressing his thighs together. Okay, no big deal. Just hold it. You're Iron Man. You've been through worse.
Then Steve groaned, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“Not gonna make it,” he muttered, gripping his knees.
Tony winced in sympathy—and not just because Steve was suffering. If Steve breaks, I’m done for too.
“Come on, Cap, you can do it,” Clint encouraged.
“Easy for you to say,” Steve muttered. “You don’t have a super-serum metabolism.”
Tony made the mistake of laughing.
The movement jolted his bladder, and suddenly, the pressure increased tenfold.
Oh, no.
His breath hitched as he stiffened, barely resisting the instinct to grab himself. Crap. Crap. Crap. He had seriously miscalculated his ability to hold it.
And that was the moment Natasha, ever observant, finally took notice.
“…Tony?” she asked, tilting her head.
He immediately went on the defensive. “What?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You okay?”
“Peachy.”
A beat.
Then Clint, sharp as ever, grinned. “Wait a second.”
Tony’s stomach sank.
“Oh my god,” Clint said, eyes lighting up. “You have to pee too.”
At once, all eyes turned to him.
Tony bristled. “No, I don’t.”
Bucky smirked. “Yeah, you do.”
“I really don’t.”
Bruce adjusted his glasses, studying him. “You’re sitting way too stiffly for someone who doesn’t.”
Steve, despite his own agony, blinked in surprise. “…Tony?”
Tony clenched his jaw. This was not how he wanted to go down.
Unfortunately, Clint had already decided to make it a thing.
“Well, well, well,” Clint said, stretching out in his seat obnoxiously. “Looks like we have two desperate men on board. How the mighty have fallen.”
Natasha smirked.
Tony glared at her. “I'm not—”
But shifting in his seat sent another wave of urgency through him, cutting his sentence short.
“Oh my god,” Clint cackled. “You totally are.”
Steve groaned. “Can we not make this worse?”
“Yeah, I second that,” Tony muttered through clenched teeth. “No commentary needed.”
Bucky, who had been mostly silent, tilted his head at Tony. “Wait… how long have you needed to go?”
Tony hesitated. “Um.”
Bruce frowned. “Have you needed to go this whole time?”
“…Define ‘whole time.’”
Steve looked absolutely betrayed. “Why didn’t you say anything?!”
Tony scoffed. “Oh, sure, and admit I have the bladder of a regular human while you were getting the full team support treatment? Pass.”
Steve groaned again, bending forward slightly. “This is awful.”
Tony nodded tightly. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”
“Look on the bright side,” Clint said cheerfully. “At least now Steve’s not the only one suffering.”
Steve glared at him. “You are the worst.”
“Agreed,” Tony muttered.
Time dragged on. Ten minutes. Twenty. The tension in the jet had shifted completely—no one was relaxed anymore.
Steve looked like he was using every ounce of super soldier discipline not to break.
Tony, on the other hand, was at his limit.
Every second felt like an eternity. The constant vibrations of the jet were absolute torture. His foot tapped anxiously, his fingers curled against his leg, and he was now actively fighting to keep himself from squirming.
“God,” he muttered under his breath. “This sucks.”
Steve nodded tightly. “I hate everything.”
And then—finally, mercifully—Natasha pulled up a display on the jet’s screen.
“We’re two hours away from landing,” she announced.
Two hours.
Tony felt his stomach drop.
He wasn’t going to make it.
The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. His body had gone from “barely hanging on” to “seconds away from disaster.”
And by the look on Steve’s face, he wasn’t far behind.
“Alright,” Bucky said, pushing himself up. “We need a plan.”
Tony scoffed. “A plan? What, you gonna conjure a bathroom out of thin air?”
Bucky shrugged. “Could be a bottle.”
Steve groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes.
Tony’s face twisted in annoyance. “There isn't any bottles..”
“oh..” Bucky leaned back.
More time passed.
Tony was in agony. His entire body was tense, his breath shallow, every muscle clenched, hands dug into his crotch.
And then Steve suddenly jolted forward.
“Oh, no—”
Everyone tensed.
Steve let out a sharp breath. “I can’t—”
Bucky reacted first, grabbing a jacket and shoving it over Steve’s lap.
Silence fell.
Tony clenched his fists. He couldn’t watch.
And then—suddenly—his own body betrayed him.
A sharp, undeniable spasm shot through his bladder.
“Oh, crap—”
The team turned to him.
“Tony?”
He barely had time to react before he felt warmth pooling beneath him. His entire body went still as the inevitable happened.
Silence.
Then—
“Oh my god, both of them?!” Clint burst into laughter.
“Shut up,” Steve and Tony snapped in unison.
Natasha smirked. “So much for the mighty Avengers.”
Tony groaned, dropping his head into his hands. “I am never flying on this jet again.”
Steve sighed heavily, slumping in his seat. “Worst. Mission. Ever.”
The team laughed. Tony vowed revenge.
And the automatic jet hummed on.