There is very little weirder than someone else’s absolute terror suddenly fountaining in the back of her brain. It’s not as hideously overwhelming as a stranger’s fear — or maybe it is, just in a completely different way. The response it triggers in her is /hers/, instead of simply her body reflecting someone else, and that’s worse.
She drags in a breath, and another, and shoves the adrenaline-induced nausea away by main force. “Tony?” she says, uselessly, into the silence of her own rooms, and gets up, almost blindly stumbling toward the door and the elevator.
The elevator takes her to the workshop without needing any specification, and Jarvis remains silent, save for a brief, -I suggest speaking softly,- just before the elevator doors open.
By that time, Tony has bent over the worktop, hands still fisted (albeit not as tightly) and forehead resting against the cool surface as his headache—not so bad as he thought it would be, but still bad enough that crawling under the worktop like some sort of nocturnal critter is still looking like a half-decent idea—throbs dully in time with the humming and buzzing of the lab equipment. He shifts slightly, but otherwise gives no sign of acknowledging her entrance.
“Tony?” It’s dim, and she can hardly see him. “Are you … where are you? What /happened/?” His fear is infecting her voice, which shakes. “Is everything okay?” It’s a /stupid/ question, but she can’t help herself. There’s no one else in the room except the two of them, there’s nothing but him and her and an emotionless computer and she can’t see anything at all that might have inspired such a fantastic spike of fear.
She still wants to throw up.