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New Years Eve, 2013: 0158 1/1/14.
Year in, year out the Maria Stark Foundation held a large party to try to squeeze extra donations from its invitees before the year was out. For the first time, mainly due to the fact that he had been a tad frozen the previous year, Steve Rogers was invited. It was an experience he hoped never to forget. Everything around him screamed money, from the clothing that people were wearing to the alcohol that was being consumed as though it was water. The clothes alone had the man out of time speechless with wonder; the colours, the hair-styles, even the types of fabrics used. Dancers swirled and twirled around each other in steps so intricate that Steve’s fingers itched for a pencil so he could transfer the images to paper. That helped prevent him from glancing at some of the other dancers performing movements that made him wish to lower his eyes and blush at any rate. Conversations swelled and ebbed around him as party-goers vied for each other’s attention and drank copious amounts of champagne, each glass of which surely cost more than a week’s rent of the small two-bedroom flat he and Bucky had shared.
At the centre of the party, Tony Stark danced through verbal conversations with more people than Steve could keep up with. Clad in a suit formed of lines sharp enough Steve half-way feared they’d draw blood from someone. He definitely feared that the man’s occasionally cutting remarks would cause blood-shed at times. Yet the high-society of New York City smiled through their teeth and tittered in amusement as though he were joking. Indeed, maybe he was? Steve didn’t know how he did it. He reminded him somehow of a spider, jiggling in its web as it tugged one wayward string after another, pulling its prey towards it to be eaten, or, in this case, offer donations of money. Charm oozed off the sharply-dressed superhero as sweat poured off the more energetic of the dancers thronging the large hall. Steve knew precisely how important this night was to Tony even if despised the actual evening itself; he had watched the billionaire spend hours and hours wading his way through charity after charity, deciding precisely how much money to allocate and to whom. Each one of them had an emotional attachment to the man and this night was one of the biggest fundraisers of the year for the Foundation.
Yet… Steve felt a thrill of concern touch him. Tony’s mask that was normally so flawless, as though he had not a care in the world, let alone the million and two concerns that kept him up at night. For Steve to be able to read even the tiny signs of strain the man was showing meant that something was seriously wrong. Was that a slight tremor running through his fingers as he took a small sip of his drink? Was that crinkle at the corner of his eye a sign of the actual amusement he was trying to portray? Or was it stress?
Steve had been worried about Tony for the past few weeks; that had been his real reason for accepting the invitation to an event he would have rather avoided. The man had been stretching himself truly to the limits trying his best to organise this evening, as well as keep up with all his other duties such as Iron Man, head of the Research and Development units for both SHIELD and Stark Enterprises… the list seemed endless. If Tony had slept for more than two hours a night for the past month, if he’d slept at all, then Steve would’ve been surprised. Today had been the worst by far. Steve had been settled in the workshop sketching whilst Tony worked, and JARVIS had constantly been forwarding requests and questions from a list of people longer than Steve knew what to do with. Why someone else wasn’t organising this, Steve just didn’t know. Apparently the usual person had had family issues, but the Foundation couldn’t organise someone else? Yet so few traces of that showed on the man’s visage; foundation and other make up had to have been used to cover up the dark rings and sickly pallor the man had been sporting that morning. It was the only explanation that made sense.
It was time to give the man a rest. It had gone midnight, the New Year was officially rung in, and these jackals and sharks could play their games another time. Steve caught Pepper’s eye, the woman clad in an ankle length, elegant blue dress that reflected the bright lights shining throughout the room making some of the more red-blooded gentlefolk’s in the room mouths dry out in appreciation. He quirked one eyebrow and nodded towards Tony, hoping that she’d get the message and allow him to rescue his teammate. The formidable woman in question allowed her gaze to briefly dance over to the billionaire before return to the people whom she was in conversation with after giving Steve a brief nod. Permission granted.
Steve began to make his way towards the ailing man, doing his best to dodge out the way of the drunken elites of New York City without offending anyone or stepping on their toes. It seemed somewhat easier to treat the room like a battlefield! Eventually he was close enough to reach out and clasp Tony’s elbow causing the slightest flinch to run throughout the man’s entire body, only noticeable because of the contact Steve maintained with him. “Excuse me gentlemen, ladies,” Steve interrupted as politely as he could, a hint of Captain America underlying his polite words. Steve Rogers would never have dared to interrupt the gathering, and would have been much more awkward about it. “I do apologise for interrupting, but I’m afraid I need to borrow Tony here for a little while.” Tony’s eyes narrowed in confusion, yet he forced on a wide smile and began apologising to his guests, only Steve noticing the quaver in his voice.
Steve kept a firm grasp of Tony’s elbow as he escorted the man from the main ballroom of the Waldorf Astoria where the party was being held. The fact that Tony hadn’t even tried to protest only confirmed his opinion. Steve carefully led the billionaire up the stairs, noting with concern how the slight tremors he’d noticed previously had worsened the moment they left the crowded hall. “Easy, Tony…” he murmured as he shifted his grip further up the man’s arm so as to offer more support rather than just direction. “Are you ill?” Normally he’d have put the billionaire’s unsteadiness down to drink, yet the man had been nursing the same glass all evening, and Steve didn’t reckon it had an alcoholic beverage in it.
Tony, not bothering to try to respond verbally, just shook his head. Then, realising that the supersoldier would want further clarification bit out a strained “…too much.” Steve remained silent, leading the billionaire up to one of the hotel rooms that had been booked by the Foundation for any guests. Steve had been given a bizarre plastic card which would apparently work the same as a key on entrance to the ballroom. All the guests had been offered one, it seemed. Tony’s words had made it clear precisely what the problem was.
Steve had had many conversations with JARVIS over the course of the past year revolving around the genius. Steve had been concerned, and still was, about how Tony abused his body time and time again by pushing it to its ultimate limits. On finding that he had a co-conspirator, and a trustworthy one at that, JARVIS had eventually shared the information that Tony was a high-functioning, undiagnosed, autistic. Occasionally he could be overwhelmed by too much stimulation, whether it was visual or auditory, and he always had to be taken somewhere quiet to regain his balance. Steve, who hadn’t been familiar with autism prior to this, had promptly gone away and researched it. It had made many of the billionaire’s more unusual characteristics make sense. How clean-cut and streamlined his personal spaces were, how he responded much better when things were in a routine. JARVIS took the time to explain how what appeared to be unusual acts of spontaneity were most often calculated and planned to the letter, just far faster than any other mind Steve knew was capable of. The sometimes absolutely callous things the man was capable of saying. That one label made so many things make sense.
By the time the pair reached the room, Tony was barely able to disguise his shivers. His eyes were firmly pressed closed and breath was at a slightly elevated rate. Steve, attempting to minimise the contact between two, was still clutching onto his elbow and guiding the billionaire. Steve dug his hand into his suit-pocket and drew the card out of it. A puzzled expression crossed over his face for a moment before he inserted the card into the slot just above the door handle. The red light flickered green granting the pair access. With his spare hand, Steve reached out and pushed the door handle down before leading the pair into the room. He sat the shivering man down on the bed and hurriedly moved around the room drawing all the curtains and ensuring that only one side light was left on. “What can I do, Tony? How can I help?” he whispered, eyes focused on the man just sitting there slumped on the bed.
The words seemed to bring some life to the man as he sluggishly began to remove his jacket, fingers fumbling at the buttons. Steve continued to watch, ignoring the urge to help that ran through him. JARVIS had explained that contact was probably the last thing that Tony would want in this situation, unless directly sanctioned. “Good, Tony.” Steve gently encouraged, keeping his voice pitched low and soothingly, as different from the mass of drunken voices downstairs as possible. “Now your shoes,” It apparently took a few moments for the words to register as it took the billionaire several moments to begin the attempt to toe off the smart shoes.
Steve’s fingers twitched with the urge to undo the shoelaces and make it easier for the man in front of him, but he once again bit back the urge. Tony was rife with confidence issues mixed with stubbornness, but it was neither trait that was causing this surge of independence. This was a genuine inability to handle anything else. An inability to cope with any further stimuli.
Several moments passed in silence between the pair, only interrupted by the gentle thump of the jacket hitting the floor followed shortly after by the dual bumps of both shoes doing the same. “Well done, Tony.” What about the rest of his clothes? Would they irritate his skin and prevent him from settling? JARVIS had explained how that could sometimes happen. But no, the billionaire was laying himself down unprompted, allowing his socked feet to rest comfortably on the bed covers. Steve sat down in the comfy-looking arm chair close by the bed and kept his eyes trained on his friend.
In the morning he would greet him with a cup of coffee from the supplies laid out on the side tray, and would ensure that absolutely no one had access to him. He would organise Happy to come and pick them up from one of the side entrances, or possibly Clint. Then, on return to the Tower, he would ensure that Tony got to wherever he wished, to do whatever he wished. He would ask JARVIS to forward all calls not relating to SI directly to him, and would do all he could to lessen Tony’s workload. Tony needed a day of quiet and rest, possibly several. Steve would ensure he got it. “Happy New Year, Tony.”