Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Natasha is always on my case telling me to get more sleep. She insists that eight hours isn’t unreasonable. I always tell her that I’m most creative at night. It’s always a lie.

I could sleep more, but then I would be dreaming, and then I would be in hell for eight hours every night. I don’t know why it happens or what it should mean, but every time I fall asleep, I have the same dream.

It starts with me driving up a big hill during a storm, and when I get to the top, I see one person, and it is always someone that I love. Their wrists are bleeding, and there are razor blades in their hands. Last night, it was Steve, and the night before that, it was my little sister. No matter what, at the top of that hill there is someone I love bleeding out and they die in my arms.

I’ve tried googling what these kinds of dreams mean, and it seems like every site says something different. Some of them say that I am afraid of change and am holding onto the past, others say that there is a part of me that I want dead, and one even said that there is a part of my subconscious that wants the person I see killing themselves to die. So basically, not even the internet knows what is wrong with me.

Now, I don’t sleep. On the days that I do sleep for a few hours, I wake up early, and there is just something about seeing everyone you love killing themselves that makes it a little hard to want to wake up again. I’d tell Natasha, but I really don’t know how to casually tell the woman who saved your life that I’ve seen her, and most of her closest friends, commit suicide in my head.

“Hey (y/n), how’re you doing? I noticed the light never went off in your room last night,” said Natasha.

“I’m fine, I just must’ve fallen asleep with it on again,” I replied. At least it wasn’t a complete lie... I did happen to sleep for a solid three hours last night even though it was against my will. I did try to stay awake though by working on my digital art project; this time it’s a rendering of all of the avengers in the New York skyline. I guess even that couldn’t keep me awake though.

“Are you sure you’re okay (y/n)?”

“I’m fine, I promise.”

Most mornings went like this. I would wake up (more like leave my room after staying awake), go to the kitchen, and then Natasha would try to get me to be real with her. It isn't that I don’t like her or that I don’t want to open up to her, it’s just that I am pretty freaking terrified of being vulnerable. My dad used to joke about how I am like a turtle in a bubble who refuses to even leave her shell, much less the bubble. Maybe him and my mother leaving is why I can't open up to anyone, maybe its because they tried to force me out of my shell but ended up shattering it instead.

Natasha’s POV

“Hey Steve, have you noticed anything off about (y/n) lately?” I am worried about her. (Y/n) has always kept her personal life and feelings close to her chest, but now all she does is tell us not to worry. I know enough about being hurt to see it in others, even when they might not see it in themselves.

“Not that I’ve noticed, she hasn’t been able to make eye contact with me lately though,” replied the super soldier.

“What do you mean?”

“Its weird. Whenever I walk into a room, she just goes silent and won’t acknowledge me. Not that she would have any reason to, but its strange. She (y/n) is usually really friendly. Why do you ask though? Has she done anything to cause worry?”

“It’s not that, she just won’t talk to me. I don’t think she is getting enough sleep and she keeps insisting everything is fine, but I have a gut feeling that that isn’t true,”

“I can try talking to her if you’d like. I want to make sure everything is okay between us too if I can get the chance.”

“Yeah. That sounds good.”

I care about (y/n). A lot. She is like a daughter to me, and I need to make sure that she isn’t hurt or in some kind of trouble. At some point though I need to let her fight her own battle, Lord knows I have had to face my own demons countless times. The least I can do is try to be there for her though.

Reader’s POV

The one thing that I have discovered throughout this whole “watching my friends kill themselves every night business” is that naps are the best thing ever. They may not be a substitute for a solid eight hours, but at this point I couldn’t really care less, especially when I have the best hammock set up known to man. Even if I can get an hour or two of hammock time, I am grateful because they are always dreamless for me. No storms, no suicides, nothing. It is just me, my pillows, and my hammock.

The setup is perfect, and I am actually happy until I leave my little after-dinner-nap-cocoon and have to face reality. It is then that I realize that I won’t be happy if I have to remember everything that I’ve done and seen. Usually, I’d try to listen to music and dance or some shit like that to distract myself, but tonight I need something else, something stronger. And then, it comes to me.

It’s a good thing I still have all my contacts from high school and remember “codename.” I always signed my texts with “AB” in high school because I always had my head up in the starts like the aurora borealis.

*Meet me at the old spot tonight at 7. I’ll bring cash -AB*

*Anything specific? -KP*

*Nah. Dealer’s choice. As long as it’s strong. -AB*

I know they say that drugs are bad, but sometimes they can be super helpful and the trips can be therapeutic. Plus, it’s not like I’m an addict or anything, I just need a little help slipping away occasionally. I haven’t even gotten high in 3 years, so it’ll be fine.

I got to our old spot under the bride and I just waited. And then I waited some more. The next thing I know I look down at my watch and it reads 2:30am. I must have fallen asleep on the rock I was sitting on because when I got up and looked around, I found a sticky note on the rock I had been on that said “Sorry AB, I got here but I think someone followed you, he looked like one of the super people or whatever. -KP”

Wonderful. I thought that they trusted me, but it turns out I can't even go out without being followed. I mean sure, Nat or Steve would be pissed if they found out I dried to buy street drugs, but it is my life. Not theirs. And Steve isn't the poster child for safe drugs or whatever anyway. At least I didn’t try to pump myself full of mystery serum and hope for the best. Whatever. I’ll just go back and smash some shit in the gym. At least it beats sleeping.

Steve’s POV

As soon as I went to check on (y/n), I saw her get on her bike and leave the compound. Nobody is going to stop her from leaving, but it’s strange for her to just go out without saying anything. At least I can say that I had a good reason to follow her.

When she got to her destination, everything about it seemed off. (Y/n) was just sitting on a rock, and it looked like she was dozing off, chin to chest, under a bridge in upstate New York. It’s been a few years, but even I know that this looks a lot like a drug deal waiting to happen.

A half an hour later, I see another person drive in. She looks about the same age as (y/n), but she has a more confident look about her, and is carrying a brown paper bag. I tried not to be obviously watching this whole thing go down, but the least I can do is make sure that (y/n) stays safe and away from whatever is in that bag, so I do a jog by. The second girl seems pretty unfazed but instead she writes something down and “casually” leaves it next to (y/n). I decide to stay there until (y/n) wakes up so I can make sure that she stays safe. This entire situation is strange, but I don’t think I’m going to question her about it. If (y/n) is struggling, then I know that there are plenty of people at the compound, including myself, that will not hesitate to help her.

Reader’s POV

Home, sweet home. As soon as I get back to the compound, I go straight for the gym. I have so much anger inside me, but I am not angry at the people around me, I am angry at myself. I am angry at my subconscious for creating images of Steve and Natasha and everybody in such a horrifying state. So, I take out my anger on a punching bag. I am a pretty decent fighter when it comes to hand to hand combat, but time and time again I have been told that I lack the concentration and clarity of mind to be able to truly defend myself. Tonight is no exception.

After I land the third or fourth punch, my wrist begins to hurt like it never has before, but at this point I don’t even care. All I can focus on is landing the punches and making sure that I don’t break focus. It doesn't work. After another thirty or forty minutes, I look at my wrist again, and it is swollen and too colorful for my liking. I probably sprained it, but I can’t bring myself to care. If anything, I feel as if I deserve the pain for not being careful enough, for not being able to focus, for not being good enough. This is all I am thinking of when I stand up and start punching again. I. Am. Not. Good. Enough. It runs through my head like a mantra, and I believe it. I’m not talented like any of the other Avengers, and I’m certainly not as smart as any of them. So I keep punching, and I like what I see. I continue for a little while longer, but the pain is becoming unbearable, so I wrap my arm in white gauze and tape, and I head to my room.

I won't lie. The punching made me feel better, but the pain was really what did it for me. I couldn’t get a traditional high tonight, but this pain was almost the same. It is like a normal high though in the sense that I feel like I need more when I’m coming down. I can't stop wanting to hurt myself, and not just because of the high it brings, but because I deserve it. It’s like a medicine that has been prescribed without my consent, and know it feels like I need it to survive. Instead of punching this time, I roll up my shorts and get out my pocket knife.

There was a time when I never would have considered hurting myself like this. Before my life changed, I was a happy teenage girl with an amazing group of friends, and a supportive family. I was the person that would sometimes just not be able to stop smiling for no reason at all. I was the person that was “a pleasure to have in class” according to my teachers. And then, I wasn’t. I became the girl that everyone pitied, and the girl that people looked at and saw something shattered. And that is exactly what I am because of what happened. Shattered into a million pieces.

It all happened my junior year of high school. I was in New York City with my family, and we were tourists in our own state. We decided that we would hit all the biggest highlights in the city in only two days. It should have been the perfect weekend, but then the Incident happened. The sky opened up, and hell came down. I guess we were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was the only one out of the four of us to survive the weekend, and I had to fight for my life. I was in a coma for 18 months, and I missed my family’s funeral. After, I was shattered. My whole sense of identity had been stolen away from me. So to cope, I tried to carry on as if nothing had happened. I gained some bad habits with old classmates, mainly drinking and getting high regularly. I know that it was bad. So when I entered a contest judged by the one and only Tony Stark, I never thought that I would win, but I did. I told my story through a concept for a device that could help people who feel alone and isolated, much like how I felt.

Since I turned 18 while I was in a coma, I decided that I would live alone once I left the hospital. It was a tough decision, but I didn’t have anyone left. All my friends had moved on, they thought I was a lost cause, and my parents were both only children, so I didn’t have any family. It was hard, but Tony pitied me and decided that I would become his next project, and I went along with it.

Now, three years later, hear I am, falling back into old patterns. I don’t think I’ve really accomplished anything here, and that makes me feel even worse about myself. Sure, I’ve learned how to protect myself, but not in a way that can save people like my family.

What I can do is take my knife and drag it across my thighs. At first it hurt, but then the pain becomes like white noise and all I can think about is making more lines. One after the next, soon my thighs look like a canvas with abstract art carved in. I’m not proud of what I have done, but it is beautiful in my eyes. At this point its almost 5:00 am, and I decide that I should probably sleep a little bit before I start my morning.

Chapter Text

Tony’s POV

(Y/n) has been worrying me recently. She has had a very tough few years of her life, and I get that, but right now, she is scaring me. I don’t get a lot of sleep at night, so when I was roaming around the compound last night and I saw her in the gym at an ungodly hour, I knew that something was wrong. I get that she may not like sleep very much now, but she needs to take care of herself, and I will not hesitate to make sure that she does exactly that.

“Hey (y/n), how was the gym last night?” I ask.

“Oh you were up? It was fine, I just needed to get some energy out, I couldn't really sleep last night,” she responded. She won’t make eye contact with me, and I know that something is wrong, and that makes my heart wrench.

“Okay. (Y/n), I’m going to be frank with you. I know that something is up, and if you want to tell me about it, then that is wonderful. If not, I respect that, but, I need you to take care of yourself. You have come so far, and I need you to know that it has not been for nothing. I feel responsible for you know, and I need to know that you are hanging on.”

I might’ve been too harsh, but she needs to get it. I don’t have any children of my own, but she is like family to me now. Even if this is something that I cannot fix with a new suit or gadget, I need to be there for her.

“I get it. And you’re completely right. Something is off, and I don’t think I can talk about it right now, but I’ll try to stay okay. I want to be okay, but I don’t think I can ask for help just yet,” she replies.

“If you need me, you know where to find me. Whenever you’re ready to talk, I will be here.”

Her answer is honestly comforting. At least now I know that she is struggling, but at the same time all I want to do is fix everything or build something to make it better. I get more than most that the problems on the inside are the hardest to fix, I just hope that she will ask for help before she does something stupid.

Reader’s POV

I honestly do not know what just happened. I was too focused on keeping my sleeves down and I might have exposed myself, but at least now I know I have a shoulder to cry on? Maybe? I still don’t know. I am completely out of it right now and I just need a break from everything. I guess that was the good part of literally being in a coma for 18 months. Nobody could bother me with their shit, and my shit couldn’t bother me.

“Hey (y/n), I’m going out for a jog, do you want to come?” That was the first thing I heard when Tony woke me up from my little zone out on the couch. I guess I was pretty deep in thought or something, but now I actually need to respond.

“Um yeah, sure. Just give me a sec to get dressed,” I guess I’m going on a jog now? I’m still so out of it and it feels like my brain is responding to things without me actually thinking about what I’m saying.

When I get back to my room, I realize that it is the middle of summer in upstate New York, and it is hot. I can't go outside wearing a sweatshirt or I will get heat stroke, but if I wear a t-shirt, then Tony will see that my arm and the side effects of last night’s thoughts. I decide to play my chances, and I wear a lightweight jacket over a tank, and biker shorts that cover my thighs.

“Alright Tony, you ready?” I ask.

“You sure you want all those layers? It’s like 85 degrees and humid out,” he responds.

“I am. I don’t want a sunburn is all,” That was a total lie. I just can’t be exposed yet. I don’t know how to explain myself, and while I’m sure he’ll still treat me well, I don’t want to deal with the embarrassment just yet.

“Okay, just be sure to drink a lot of water.”

Throughout the run, Tony tries to make small talk, but I’m not in any shape to be running 5 miles and talking. Especially not now. The cuts on my leg are rubbing against my biker shorts, and it hurts like hell with the sweat mixed in on top of it. Everything hurts, but I can't let Tony know that I’m in such a bad place, even though I am.

By mile 3, I can feel the blood on my legs, and I start to feel a little lightheaded. I know I should stop, but I won’t. Tony doesn’t seem to notice.

“I’m glad we could do this, (y/n). I’ve been thinking a lot over the past few days about how far you have come while you’ve been here, and it’s amazing. You have a support system that cares about you so much, and I can speak for everyone, we will never abandon you. No matter what, we will always be hear for you,” Tony says.

I want to respond, but I can’t. I don’t even know how to start unpacking everything Tony just told me. On top of that I feel like I am floating above the ground, but like I might drop at any second. Tony looks at me and I see his expression change in an instant. Before I know it, I am sitting on the grass with my head between my knees.

“Tony, I don’t feel good, I don’t think I can keep going,” I mumble. Between the heat, the blood loss, and my damn wrist, I never stood a chance at this. I should’ve given my body time to heal, but no. I had to go and try to prove that I’m okay or whatever, but I’m not okay, physically or otherwise.

“Hey, (y/n), stay with me,” he says as he puts his hand on my leg,” (y/n), is that blood?”

“...yeah” I respond. At this point I am so dizzy that I put my head on the ground. Tony takes my zip up off of me to put under my head, and I don’t have the energy to resist it. The next thing I know, I am in his arms and he’s carrying me inside.

I wake up on a table in Banner’s lab with a glass of water on the counter next to me. The metal surprisingly feels good on my skin.

“Before you say or do anything, drink that glass of water,” Tony orders me with a cold voice. I sit up and do exactly that, but when I do I notice that my arm had a real wrap on it and my legs are also covered in gauze and tape. They know. Tony can’t bring himself to look me in the eyes, and it hurts more than anything else has in the past 24 hours. I can’t find the words to try to explain myself yet.

“Why did you do that to yourself? I know those cuts on your legs are new, and last time I checked, your arm wasn’t black and blue, so why?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Bullshit. Everyone does everything for a reason.”

“I was tired of hurting.”

“So you decide to hurt yourself even more? I’m just trying to understand what is going on in that head of yours.”

“I am a shattered version of myself, and sometimes it makes me hurt less if I can block everything else out with pain. It helps me to forget about what I see in my dreams at night, and it helps bring me back down to earth when I drift too far into my own thoughts. Is that good enough? I know that I am completely messed up in the head. I get it. Something died inside of me when I was in that damn coma, and I don’t know how to bring it back to life. But sometimes I feel like I have to do damage control and stop the death from spreading. I need to not let this take over my life, and physical pain helps with that. Its messed up but its true.”

“(Y/n), you know that we all love you here, right?”

“I know.”

“And you know that no matter what, we will help you through this, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I need you to come to one of us, it doesn’t have to be me, whenever you feel like you need to block everything out with pain, or bring yourself back down, or do damage control, or anything. We care about you too much to see you suffer, and everyone, especially Nat and Steve, have noticed that you’re suffering.”

“Okay.”

“And also, (y/n), sleep at night. Your dreams will get better if you make them.”

3 months later

I took Tony’s advice, and things are nowhere near perfect, but I am starting to figure out my life. I still get scared to sleep, but the dreams have started to stop. I still get urges to hurt myself, and more often than not, I go to him or Steve or Nat, and they talk me down.

Because I stopped hurting myself as much, I was able to pick up the pace of my training, and now I can defend myself. I’m not an Avenger in the same way as everyone else, but I’ve started to figure out where I belong here. Tony even told me that he would help me work on making my concept for my loneliness device a reality.

I was shattered, and sometimes it still feels like I am, but right now, for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m being put back together the right way.