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Water dripped slowly down the side of Tony’s glass, staining a circle on to the wood of the coffee table. Ice melted to water, thinning his stiff whiskey into something less intense. Sighing heavily, he reached for it. He knocked the glass back, letting his eyes drift shut.
It was too late to be up. Night had turned to morning already, and Pepper was going to be worried. But, he was glued to the couch. The rational part of his brain tried to persuade him to his bedroom. The covers, Pepper’s arms, his pillow. They all beckoned. But, he was glued to the couch.
Groaning, he sunk deeper down into the soft leather of his workshop couch. Flashes of his nightmare still clung to him. He felt Pepper slip out of his grasp, watched her fall down, down, down, and this time she didn’t get up. He didn’t catch her. How could he call himself a hero, if he couldn’t even save her?
“Sir, perhaps a change of scenery would help?” Jarvis suggested, “The common room is currently unoccupied.”
Tony finished off his whiskey before standing up. He swayed on his feet. Maybe he’d had one too many. He gently sat his glass down. “I think you’re right, J,” he slurred. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbled out of the lab and up to the common room, where he collapsed on the couch, out like a light.
A street light flickered below Steve’s window. His steady blue eyes locked on it, never straying. The lamp was much more interesting than the thoughts swirling in his head. He couldn’t shut his eyes without seeing the war. Blood stains on snow, mud splashed on black tires, bruised knuckles sliding into leather gloves. It was like a scratched record stuck on repeat, playing an eerie song that he couldn’t escape. And if it wasn’t that, it was the ice. That cold, unescapable midnight blue that closed in until he was dead. But he wasn’t dead, not really. He was fighting—always fighting—the same war.
Nightmares hadn’t been uncommon among his men. They’d all been through plenty enough to fuel night terrors. Steve always hid his. As Captain, he couldn’t show fear. Couldn’t show weakness. But now, he was alone in a room that was his but still wasn’t. He was in a world that was his but still wasn’t. He’d never felt more vulnerable in his life.
Sweat ran down his temple. His room was too hot. He threw his blankets to the floor and hopped out of bed. Slipping a discarded shirt over his head, he pushed open his door. He figured no one would be the common room, not at four in the morning. It would be a good change of scenery if nothing else.
Natasha could never wake herself up after nightmares. Her muscles grew rigid, her breathing became quick. She trembled and whimpered until the nightmare was over. After moving into the tower, Jarvis was able to wake her. She’d gotten accustomed to the sound of the AI’s gentle voice pulling her out of nightmares.
That night was just another one. Her eyes shot open. Red curtains, stained fingers, and unfeeling eyes faded to the baby blue of her wall. She had a window in her room; the curtains framing it were open to reveal thousands of stars above the New York skyline. The tightness in her chest lessoned as she gulped in lungful after lungful of air.
Her hands were balled up in fists, clenched down on her covers. Letting her heart rate return to normal, she flipped over on her back to stare at the ceiling. Her quivering lips parted slightly.
“Miss Romanov?” Jarvis asked. Natasha would never understand how a computerized voice could sound so caring. “Are you alright?”
Squeezing her eyes shut, Natasha nodded. “Yes,” she breathed, “I’m good.”
“May I suggest you go down to the common room?” he asked, “It is often helpful to move or rehydrate after being emotionally distressed.”
Natasha considered it. It was four in the morning; it wasn’t like the common room would be filled with people. She could just slip down, grab a glass of water, and head back up. “Good idea, Jarvis,” she said, sitting up out of bed, her blankets sliding off her shoulders and into her lap. She swung her slender legs over the side of the bed, then, silent as a mouse, she crept down to the common room.
For Thor, nightmares were violent. White hot lightning against a slate grey sky, fresh blood and deep wounds, heavy crowns. He was often yanked out of them, chest heaving and heart pounding. He’s always had them often—even as a child—, but after his mother and brother’s deaths, they’d been increasing in frequency and intensity.
If he’d been on Asgard, he would’ve gone out to the training grounds to work out his emotions on the sparring dummies. But, since he was in the tower, he was lost as to what to do.
He slowly peeled back his covers and climbed out of bed. His floor was the top floor (the “penthouse”, as Tony called it), which gave him a good blasting off point, but an even better view. He wandered to the window, taking in that view.
Every time he blinked he saw destruction at his hands. The fall of Asgard. Funny how his fear of destruction made him want to punch through a wall. Like fighting fire with fire.
It was too dark in his room, for his taste. Running his hands over his tangled curls, he made his way out of his room. Might as well grab a drink, he figured, as he went to the elevator. Moving would do him good, too. The common room would most likely be empty, anyway. It wasn’t like he was waking anyone up.
So, he went down to the common room.
Nightmares were natural. Products of anxiety and worry and fear. Bruce knew this; he was a brilliant scientist, after all. Yet, every time he woke up with a scream caught in his throat and sweat pouring down his face, he was always thrown for a loop.
His nightmares were always, always the same. He killed people. He hurt people. Just like his father. Every nightmare he’d ever had ended with him shooting up in bed, slinging his covers to the ground like they were caustic.
His navy comforter was on the ground, bathed in milk white moonlight. His feet landed next to it a moment later. Wrapping his arms tightly around his bare stomach, he stumbled to his closet. He threw on a worn grey sweater—one of the de-Hulk ones—and scrambled to the door.
He shook his head, like he could clear out the images and pain trapped up there if he just shook hard enough. He saw his hands— his not the other guy’s—pummel people ‘til they were dead. He saw his mother. He saw his father reflected back in the mirror when he looked at himself.
Windows lined the hallway that led to the elevator. Bruce slowed down and glanced to those big windows. Swallowing, he studied his reflection. Bruce. Bruce Banner. Not his father, but Bruce.
He tousled his curls and scoffed. He needed a drink. He hit the down button on the elevator, on his way to the common room.
Snoring. Steve heard snoring. Arching a blonde eyebrow, he turned the corner leading to the common room. He saw the sleek leather couches, the still smoldering fire place from where they’d been watching a movie earlier, the glint of the skyline in the window.
There was that snore again.
Steve was still on edge from his nightmare, but a laugh bubbled up his throat. He clamped his hand over his mouth before coming in further. That snore was loud. So that narrowed it to three culprits. Tony, Thor, or Clint. Since Clint was across the pond on a mission, Steve figured it had to be Tony or Thor.
The snore came again, louder because Steve had gotten closer to the couch.
Steve peered over the back of the couch. He grinned at the sight of Tony, limbs sprawled and hanging half off the side. He was just going to leave him. Get his water and head back to his room, then tease him in the morning. But, Tony started, sucking in a sharp breath and opening his wild brown eyes.
Steve jumped back. “Woah,” he breathed, stumbling a little, “Tony, it’s alright.”
Tony clamped his hands over his heart. He waved his hand. “I’m good,” he choked.
Steve raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “You’re good, huh? Why are you sleeping on the couch, then?”
“Couch is comfy,” Tony mumbled, pushing himself up to a seated position. Leaning back on his elbows, he tilted his head at the Captain. “Why are you up at 4 in the morning?”
Steve swallowed thickly. Pride made the words stick in his throat, but forced out, “Nightmares.”
Tony kicked his legs over the side of the couch and stood up. “Join the club,” he muttered. He shivered as he walked past Steve to the kitchenette. “Grab a blanket, will you? It’s freezing. Jarvis, bump the heat up.”
Steve shook his head, but he pulled out a couple blankets from the loveseat/storage container that was against the wall. Tony came back from the kitchen with two bottles of water. He tossed one to Steve, and Steve tossed a blanket to Tony.
Steve sunk into a chair while Tony occupied the same couch he’d been snoozing on.
“Wanna talk about it?” Steve asked, sipping his water. He watched Tony’s face, studied the dark circles under his eyes.
Tony shook his head. “Nope,” he said flatly.
Steve sighed. “Tony,” he chided, pressing his lips into a thin, annoyed line.
“You talk about it, mother hen,” he quipped, “What’s rattling ‘round in that head of yours?”
Again, Steve sighed. “Man, I wish I could get drunk,” he muttered. Tony snorted. “It’s always the same. The moments right before I went under. Everyone always just assumed I was unconscious on impact, but I was there in that plane...for hours. And it was so cold. I’d been cold before—there wasn’t any heating in my apartment, obviously—but that...kind of cold? It burns. It freezes your core.”
Tony was silent. Clearing his throat, he pushed himself to his feet. Steve slung his arm over the back of his chair, watching his as he fumbled through the cabinets. When he turned back, Tony was holding an ornate glass of amber liquid. He held it up with a smirk. “Me and Bruce brewed this up. A bit of a challenge to see if we could get you drunk.”
Neither of the men heard Natasha approach. She arched an auburn eyebrow and smirked. “Drinking without me, boys?” she asked, folding her arms over her chest.
They jumped, two sets of fearful gazes locking on the assassin. Tony cursed and huffed a laugh. “Don’t do that to me, Nat,” he said, wagging a finger locked around the neck of his bottle at her.
Natasha shrugged. “Can’t help it,” she admitted. Like a cat, she slinked to the chair opposite Steve and curled up in it. She rested her arm on her knee. “What’re you up so early for?”
“Nightmares,” Tony and Steve chorused.
“Small world,” Natasha joked. She held out an expectant hand. “Pass that over.”
“Us mortals are drinking something a little less lethal,” Tony said, leaving the enhanced alcohol with Steve. He went to the kitchen and returned with a much milder whiskey and two glasses. “There you are, milady.”
Natasha gladly took hers, and let Tony fill her glass to the brim. “Did I miss anything?” she asked over the lip of the glass.
Steve nodded, then took a tentative sip of his drink. He blanched and swore. “Oh, that’s awful. Tastes like motor oil.” Still, he took another sip. “Anyway, you missed my nightmare.”
“Let’s hear it, then,” she said.
“I dream about the ice,” he admitted. His blank gaze found the floor as images of that dark ship filled his mind again. “Not much more to tell you.”
Tony didn’t contradict this, even though Steve had told him more. “What was yours about, Natasha?”
“I think you should go, Stark,” she said, cocking her head and tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “What’s plaguing Iron Man?”
Tony scoffed. “More than I can tell you tonight,” he said. “But, fine. Cap went, I’ll go. Better settle in, this is gonna get…”
Tony trailed off, distractedly looking down the hallway. “You hear that...?”
Natasha was already on her feet, her muscles rigid and ready for a fight. Tony and Steve stayed seated, but their fists were clenched. Their attention was pointed at the hallway, expecting an enemy, but getting a sleepy blanket-clad Thor. Sighs echoed around the room as they all relaxed.
“Did I wake you…?” he asked, tightening the blanket around his shoulders.
They all shook her heads. “No,” Tony said, “Nightmares.”
Thor chuckled darkly and walked over to the couch. Sitting next to Tony, he shook his head. “Me too,” he mumbled.
Tony clasped Thor on the back. “Well, now that I have an audience,” he started, “Can I finish what I was saying?”
“Go right ahead, Tony,” Steve said, gesturing with his glass. His speech had even gotten a little slurred; seems the alcohol was working. Maybe Bruce would come down so Tony could congratulate him.
“I told you about the thing with Killian?” he asked, looking around the room at his friends. When they nodded, he kept going. “On that oil rig, when he had Pepper...She fell. I told I’d catch her if she just let go, but, I didn’t. She fell two hundred feet into a blazing inferno. Miraculously, she was fine. But not because of me. She survived because of Killian, not me. If I can’t protect her, how can I protect the world, hm?”
“I ask myself the same thing every day,” Steve said, looking Tony hard in the eye. “If I couldn’t save Bucky, how can I save the people out there?” He jabbed his thumb behind him at the skyline, tears brimming in his eyes.
Thor coughed and shook his head. “I was too late to save my own mother,” he said, his voice snapping like a dry twig. “One second too late.”
“I can’t even save myself,” Natasha admitted, curling in on herself, ashamed of her own uselessness. She lifted her eyes to meet her teammates’. “And how many people have I killed? What right do I have have to be heroes?”
“What right do any of us have?” Bruce said, calling everyone’s attention sharply to him. He marched in to the living room. “I don’t know what I just walked in on, but I relate to whatever you’re saying.”
“Nightmare club,” Tony said as Bruce grabbed a seat. “Let me guess, you’re up with one too?”
”Yep.”
“Join the club,” everyone dead-panned.
“Did I interrupt Natasha?” he asked.
“Oh, I hadn’t even started my nightmare,” she said. Clearing her throat, she pulled her leg up to her lap so that she was sitting criss-cross in her chair. “I dream about killing all of you.”
A statement like that should’ve surprised or even scared the Avengers, but they knew Natasha, and only felt sympathy.
“I hear them whisper your names. Then, цель . Target. I watch myself murder Steve, then Tony, then Thor, then Bruce, then Clint. I’m screaming the entire time, begging myself to stop. But I can’t. I’m exactly...I’m exactly what they made me.”
Her voice broke then, and she couldn’t keep going. No one spoke a word. Silently, Tony passed her the whiskey. She took a swig right out of the bottle as a single tear slipped down her cheek.
“Your turn, thunder,” Tony said softly after a tense moment of silence.
Thor forced a tight lipped smile before downing the remnants of his liquor. “I dreamt of Ragnarok, the fall of Asgard,” he said, fixing his gaze on the wall. His sky blue eyes reflected pain and disaster. “Only, it was my fault. I saw the flames. I saw my hands wrapped in lighting, sparking them. I watched my mother die again, my brother die again, my friends, my father. Everyone I love, dead because of me.” There was a beat, where everyone let those images sink in. And then Thor spoke again. “I very much understand your pain, Natasha.”
Natasha nodded once.
“And then there was one,” Steve said, looking over at Bruce.
Bruce shifted in his chair. “I’m starting to notice a pattern,” he noted. “I dreamt about killing people, too. Maybe we need therapy?”
“Oh, we definitely need therapy,” Tony said matter-of-factly. “I’ll call Dr. Phil in the morning.”
Thor and Steve shared a confused look, but decided not to ask.
“You’ve all read my file. You know what my father did,” Bruce said, fiddling anxiously with the sleeves of his sweater. “I dreamt I ended up just like him. You’d think I’d dream about the other guy, but no. I dream that it’s me . I’m the violent, out of control monster. I kill innocent people. And you know the worse part? In my dreams...I don’t feel remorse. I’m completely indifferent. It’s horrifying.”
The room fell silent. No one dared speak. Besides, what could they say? They were all so damaged. The world saw them as perfect, but what they really were was raw and vulnerable and broken. They patch themselves together long enough to fight, then collapse when the dust settles.
“We’re really something, huh?” Tony asked dryly, “Earth’s mightiest heroes. Wonder what they’d say if they’d been listening this whole time? They’d jump ship, I think.”
“We’d certainly be less popular,” Thor agreed.
“I can see the headlines,” Steve said. He waved his hand in the air like he was reading the top of a newspaper. “Earth’s Saddest Heroes!”
“Do we really want these walking disasters protecting us? More at eleven!” Bruce laughed.
“A source close to the Avengers,” Natasha continued, in her best imitation of a reporter’s melodramatic voice, “identified as ‘Jarvis’ claims he saw them all up at four in the morning getting wasted and discussing their fears.”
“No word from S.H.I.E.L.D on whether they’ll be fired,” Tony said.
The tense air in the room dispelled as it was replaced with laughter. They all shook their heads at themselves, exasperated with their crazy lives.
“I’m so glad your brother tried to kill everyone,” Natasha said, looking at Thor. “I’m glad we became the Avengers.”
“Well, I’m glad we became a team,” Thor said, “Not so much about my brother.”
“I’m glad you decided to let me join,” Tony said, “You know I didn’t even make the cut?”
“Well, Thor wasn’t even invited,” Bruce pointed out. “You just showed up.”
Thor chuckled. “That’s true.”
Steve smiled. “Yeah I guess you guys make up for the whole ‘everyone I ever loved is dead’ thing.”
Bruce yawned into his fist, slumping down in his chair. “It’s getting late,” he mumbled. His eyelids drooped low.
Natasha laughed at him, but her giggles turned to a yawn of her own. She curled up tighter and rested her head on the arm of her chair. “I don’t have the strength to go back to bed,” she moaned.
Tony laid his head on the back of the couch, his eyes already shut. It didn’t take long for him to start snoring again, but by the time he started, everyone but Steve was asleep as well. Steve, ever the leader, shook his head at his team. Stifling a yawn, he made his way to where they kept the blankets and pulled out enough for the Avengers. He wrapped a green striped blanket around Bruce’s shoulders, tucked in a fuzzy black one around Nat, draped a thick red quilt over Thor, and easily covered Tony’s small frame with a blue throw. Wrapping the grey blanket he’d claimed for himself around his shoulders, Steve went back to his chair.
He took one last look at the team, snoring and bathed in moonlight, and smiled. They were broken and small, but they had each other. Warmed by that thought, Steve drifted off to sleep.
And not a single nightmare woke any of them up.