Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Sir, please allow me to suggest-”

“No.”

“I must insist-”

“Mute.”

JARVIS's burst of static as he obeys the command and falls silent resembles a sigh, and Tony thinks it speaks to the current state of his life that he can exhaust even his own AI. He turns back to the holograms, cracking his back and wincing at the crescendo of the classic rock in the background. The noise isn't helping the steady, pulsating headache behind his temples that has only become more distracting the longer he stares into his holograms and tries to actually get some work done to make this self imposed hiatus worth it, but he can't admit that and ask JARVIS to turn out it down. It would only give him an in to start bothering him again about sleeping, eating, and every other necessity Tony is steadfastly ignoring in the hope that his body will just accept that he's not going to start attending to any of it any time soon and adjust accordingly. 

None of this was as hard before the Avengers moved in. Sure, he worked hard, always had and probably always would, but the 'shop used to be an escape in the creative sense. More and more, he feels like he's ducking in here and staying longer each time just to get some oxygen, and even then, their workload on his table is ever-expanding. Avengers, everywhere he turns. 

Tony sighs, refocusing on the schematics for their new protective bodysuits, rubbing a thumb too hard into the socket of his eye. He needs to add reinforcements that don't hinder movement but can minimize fall impact to reduce their injuries while in the field. If there's one thing Tony knows for certain about the people he has somehow ended up co-habiting with, it's that Barton will jump off of another building with no consideration for his eventual stopping point, and face consequences far worse than the broken arm he's still sporting the cast from in their last battle. 

Tony's not thinking about how he could have - should have - considered these improvements earlier, because then, inexplicably, he starts thinking "I need to go to the shop" with something bordering on desperation, and he's already in the shop so that doesn't make any sense. He just can't escape all of them, he supposes, and that's really not a bad thing, not all the time, he's just...

Tired. 

Maybe its just selfish, because he really has no desire to see Barton’s little counterpart crying the way he was on the Quinjet while Bruce was resetting his arm again. This is the hard thing: he likes them, he does, but trying to keep himself together and impartial while Barton's wailing pierced through the air was a nightmare, and the whole time he was thinking "I need to go to the workshop". And how has that gone? Here he is, in the workshop, thinking of Barton crying. 

Tony shakes his head, trying to get back into the working mindset he was certain he had entered the workshop with, however long ago that was now. He drains the last swig of his once hot coffee, swallowing the dregs, grimaces, stretches his back out again, and turns his attention back to the holograms which are now displaying-

Tony swallows heavily, pushing his thumb and forefinger against his temples hard in frustration. 

"JARVIS!"

Silence. And the flashing red icon of a protocol Tony removed months ago is still marring his screen obnoxiously. 

“JARVIS, this protocol is defunct, you know that.” Tony says, aware that his voice lacks the bite it should have. When nothing changes, he concedes. "J, unmute."

“Thank you sir, and as I was trying to say earlier-"

“Take it off of my desktop, J."

“You haven't slept or eaten for long enough for me to enact my protocols," JARVIS steamrolls right over him. "And you haven't entered your headspace in approximately eight months, hence the alert."

“JARVIS, you are on thin ice buddy. Wanna become a Siri?"

The pause feels loaded, somehow. 

"...It's safe, Sir, I can lockdown the floor-"

"Please."  Tony interrupts, and he must sound as pathetic as he feels, because JARVIS falls silent, and the reminder protocol, informing Tony just how long it's been down to the seconds, drops from the screen. 

Tony puts his head in his hands. He is hanging on by a thread , little paper clips holding together his fraying composure. He's tipping on the precipice of his adult headspace with nothing to keep him grounded and he does not need the reminder of how long it's been. His desperation to get away from all of his new teammates comes down to this; that Tony is pretending, all the time, and he's no longer convinced of his ability to keep it up, not forever. He doesn't have any options here, backed into a corner with a lifelong secret crushing him further into the wall, blocking him off from the rest of the Tower and all the people he's just starting to like. He wants to get away, all the time, and this desperation to get to his workshop while he's already in it makes him think maybe he's looking for something else. Something he decided a long time ago wasn't his to have.

Tony Stark is a neutral. The whole world knows that, and anyone who might remember otherwise is dead.

Except Tony. Tony remembers. 

Howard hadn't been a great father before that point, it had to be said, but everything had changed the day Tony's results had come in. He hadn't hit, not at first. No, he had simply opened the letter, pivoted on his heel, and left. Jarvis, the original Jarvis, had tried his best to soften the blow; offering ice cream, hugs, a bedtime story, even though Tony was ten and known really that he was far too old. 

Howard hadn't returned for a week. Jarvis burned the letter in the fire on the second day with a grim expression on his face, like you'd wear at a funeral. It was a death, in a way, though he hadn't known it then. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The seven days had passed tensely, and one by one Jarvis had stopped offering things; bedtime stories, mugs of milk, and the offers to grab the soft toys Tony pretended he wasn't still hanging onto. And then, when the front door finally did slam open, he had made himself scarce. 

Howard Stark's message had been simple, clear, and effective. A swift yank of Tony's shirt, in an empty room with no one to look to. His breath was acrid on his face when he had hissed "You are a neutral, do you understand?"

Tony had taken too long to respond. He was a young ten, perhaps, and still scared. Or maybe he just grew up so quickly after that that everything else felt juvenile. It didn't matter in the end. He had hesitated. 

It was a quick backhand. Truly not even so hard, the memory was just warped by time into something bigger, more ugly. You never forget the first time you're hurt, intentionally. The first time you're hurt for the sake of being hurt. The first time you deserve the pain. 

"You are a neutral. Yes?" 

And this time, Tony had nodded, eyes wide and hand clutched to his smarting cheek. And that was that. Tony Stark was a neutral. Always had been, always would be. 

It was the first time Howard had hit him. It had not been the last. It was months of seemingly random, sporadic bursts of violence at incoherent provocations: Tony had cried over a scraped knee, had called out for his Mama during the night, had been caught playing with his Bucky Bear by the fireplace. Tony learned, bit by bit, what not to do. Jarvis continued withdrawing items from his life, with the same sad look on his eyes, the shadows of his shoes lingering in the light under the crack of Tony's bedroom door long after he had said goodnight, Tony's last Bucky Bear clutched in one hand. Tony didn't fight him on it anymore. 

"It's time to grow up." Howard had said one time. 

It took him years to truly understand the passion behind the statement, but the intention had been clear. Tony had binned the last of his toys himself, and ignored Jarvis, still so sad, watching on from the sidelines. It wasn't clear what he had done wrong, at that point, but lying in his barren bed, no light leaking under the doorframe any longer, he had known, as though it was embedded in his very bones, that he had done something. And that he would never do it again. 

Thankfully, Howard himself, while being a miserable bastard, had set the stage perfectly for him. Tony had followed and subsequently destroyed the minimal trail years later: the doctor who had performed the exam had paid a more than handsome amount to keep it quiet, and then threatened with what would happen if he didn’t. The only paper evidence he was anything but a neutral was that first letter. He hadn't ever entered the newly implemented official government digital database due to a crash in the system a few days before his results arrived, which had caused a backlog. Tony had never been so grateful for malfunctioning tech. Howard started him on the suppressants as soon as he could hunt them down in whatever shady back alley such transactions took place in, around a year after the results came in.

Tony had followed in his footsteps. The shit he got now was of a much higher quality than when he was a kid, but the dosage had increased to an excess that quite frankly, few people other than Tony could ever afford. They were accessed through an anonymous supplier, and then distributed to a factory, or corporation of some kind, where they were delivered out. Practically untraceable; not one person involved knew concretely who the package was going from, or going to next. Tony still didn't like the vulnerability around it, but what could he do. He had attempted synthesising his own, but just the compounds used were immediately flagged, too unique to the drugs themselves. Tony couldn't risk the eyes on him. 

Cancer had taken away Ana, the car crash took Jarvis away from him and dear old mom and dad at the same time. The doctor had died a few years ago, taking possibly one of the biggest secrets of the 21st century with him to the grave.

So, officially, and in every way that matters, Tony Stark is a baseline with dominant tendencies. The perfect classification to exempt him from Class Law but allow his cocksure, arrogant mannerisms to be accepted as genuine. No one postured around him, or tried to use their classification to intimidate or belittle him because there wasn't any point. And that was how it was going to stay. He dropped around once a month out of necessity, and never fully. In fact he didn’t think he'd ever fully gone into his headspace, a feat he secretly prided himself on. 

And that was working fine. He was coping.

Then the Avengers moved in.

Even if Tony was comfortable enough to drop in a tower now containing the two wonder spies, there simply wasn’t time anymore. There was new gear needed constantly, with his position as an avengers consultant hinging on his ability to complete it in time. On top of that Fury wanted several independent projects done for the HeliCarrier and general shield equipment. Of course normally Tony would have told him to just fuck off, but with the constant looming threat of “Tony Stark not recommended” hanging over his neck that just wasn't an option. He'd seen what was through that portal, faced their future alone in the vacuum of space and known, with that same unerring certainty as when he was ten years old, that he couldn't change it alone. It's not a hard decision: Tony's comfort or the fate of Earth.

What complicates it, of course, as previously mentioned, is that he fucking likes them all now.

Sure, he doesn’t get much free time to spend with them, but the comfort of the odd movie night, the ease of going up a few flours and having real, breathing people to just share a tired nod with is too alluring to pass over. Tony spends much of his time locked away with robots or performing in front of a crowd, both of his closest friends often on different continents to him. It probably doesn't seem such a big deal to the others, but there's something about having them here, however difficult it makes things, that appeals to the part of him that still misses going to MIT and playing at being any other kid. He doesn't know to what extent they share this sentiment - he's still getting used to having people around, and his ever increasing workload and own neuroses pull him back into the workshop swiftly after most interaction, but he’s seen them interacting over the CCTV. Awkward stilted run-ins turning into slightly less awkward conversations, hesitant smiles, and Romanov’s subtle glee when she finds the ballet room. Barton exclaims “we’re home” when he and Romanov return from their SHIELD missions. Bruce finally unpack his emergency bag that sits at the bottom of his closet. He sees them all switch from honorifics to last names, to firsts. Maybe he's just gone soft, watching a group of dysfunctional superheroes having dinner together, seeing Romanov and Rogers playing with a little Barton under Coulson's careful supervision.  But he can't take that away from them. Can't rip away their safe place even if it means he doesn't really get to join in. Even if he's still just 'Stark', locking himself down in the workshop and trying to ignore that he feels like he's running out of air down there. 

So what, he hasn't dropped in a few months, maybe a bit more (8 months, 2 weeks, 4 days, a handful of hours and it just keeps going.) He’s beginning to feel the strain, can’t tell if the low grade fever he's running and the persistent headache is some kind of underexposure, or his immune system giving in. It doesn't matter; he's thoroughly out of options. Even if he had the time, even if it wasn't too risky, even if he could relax enough with actual spies sharing his home - the last time he had attempted the whole ordeal was a shit show. If he'd thought his adult headspace was struggling to process Afghanistan- well. His little headspace was on a whole other level. He remembers sobbing for around an hour, JARVIS' platitudes not enough to even vaguely comfort him, before eventually being snapped out of it by JARVIS playing alarms until he had come to. He thought Tony was endangering himself, having dropped to a far younger age than usual, completely unsupervised and in a lab full of dangerous chemicals.

So Tony keeps pushing himself, knowing full well that a drop is inevitable and at the rate he's going it isn't going to be voluntary. He doesn't know what else to do. Every time he stops working he feels it, the exhaustion tugging on the edges of his headspace, the telltale rubbing of his eyes, the way his screwdriver keeps absentmindedly drifting towards his mouth. He's fighting a battle with himself and he's losing.

What he absolutely does not need right now is JARVIS rubbing that fact any more in his face than it already is. And apparently roping everyone else in on that plan, seeing as DUM-E is rolling over with a smoothie, waving his claw frantically and spilling the dark grey liquid on the admittedly already less than clean floor.

Tony takes a deep breath, composes himself and thanks DUM-E for the drink, shooing him along and placing it with all the others on his desk, some in various states of mould production. 

He can't do anything about most of it. But he can do the food thing, maybe, even if it makes his stomach clench with a kind of rolling nausea to even consider putting anything in it. 

“Hey JARVIS, how's the food situation down here?”

“You have one energy bar remaining Sir. It appears to have expired."

“What about my floor?”

“Half a can of tomato soup, and some frozen meatballs. Nothing else suitable for consumption.”

Tony groans, head dropping back into his hands.

JARVIS either doesn't pick up the muffled “fuck me.” or just deems it unworthy of a response.

“Hey. How the fuck did that even happen. JARVIS don't I have people to do this kind of stuff for me? Why do I not have anyone who can do this for me?”

“I believe you said you didn't want to be treated like a child and you could manage it yourself, Sir.”

Tony scowls. 

“I will shut you down and sell you for parts.”

“As you wish Sir. As always, it's a pleasure to talk to you."

“Okay fine. Is there food and coffee on the common floor?”

“Yes Sir.”

“And who's around that area?”

“Captain Rogers is in the kitchen preparing lunch, Agent Romanov is in the common room, Prince Thor is off-world, Dr Banner is in his lab and Agent Barton cannot be detected.”

“I am going to put traps in those fucking vents Barton I swear to god.” Tony mutters.

“Alright JARVIS, lift lockdown, and take the elevator to the common floor.”

“Of course."

Tony leans against the cold steel of the elevator, watching the numbers of the levels slowly rise. He shivers, the cold of the wall seeping through his thin engineering tank. Slowly, he leans more of his weight against it as the elevator gets closer to the common floor, mentally preparing to face two caregivers, one of them a spy. On no sleep, while fighting off underexposure or whatever the hell they're calling it these days. 

Jesus.

What was he thinking again?

The elevator trills its arrival at the common floor with far too much enthusiasm, shocking him out of his thoughts.

The doors open, and he slaps on a smirk, praying it doesn't look as tired as it feels. He strolls out onto the floor, projecting the cocky self assurance he knows is expected of him as much as possible despite the fact that he can actually feel it seeping energy from him. He looks around quickly, catching sight of Romanov on the common room’s already beat up couch, testing the sharpness of a knife on its arm, in a perfect example of both why Tony is refusing to replace their communal furniture every time it starts looking a little worse for wear, and why no one would have ever guessed she had any caregiver qualities without spending a serious amount of time around her. Or just watching potentially semi-creepily from the CCTV, if you're Tony.

The way she gentles for Barton's little side is undeniable though. Hard edges melt away as she pushes him away from the debrief with strict instructions to nap. Still domineering, but there's something fond in it, something caring enough that Tony tries not to look at it to closely or too long any time he comes into contact with it. 

“Stark.”

Tony jumps, not realizing he’s pretty much been staring blankly in Romanov’s direction. He quickly looks away, feeling a blush rising in his cheeks that he desperately tried to fight back down.

“So our resident genius has decided to grace us with his company then.”

He's pretty sure he can hear bitterness in the statement. It's possible they think he thinks he's too good for them. He hasn't tried to dissuade the notion. It provides a safety net of some sort. Better to be disliked than suspected. He looks up, making sure to meet her eyes. Looking away was a very submissive move and he really shouldn't giver her any more ammunition to suspect him than he can help. The longer this goes on, the more he thinks he's fighting a losing battle in the worst way, helplessly outmatched against her years of experience in observation, but then again, if he could hide it from her while dying, scared and unaware of the true amount of danger she presented, he can surely hold things together now. 

He turns towards her.

“What can I say Itsy Bitsy, someone has to keep team morale up, and what could do that better than my beautiful face?”

She snorts, eyes full of amusement. 

“I see, and catch me up quickly, I'm slightly behind on the newest trends; is that what the latest models are sporting?” she says with a dismissive up and down sweep of her eyes. 

Tony looks down, having not even registered what he was wearing.

“Oh.”

It comes out too plaintive, making it too obvious that Tony hadn't even thought about clothes, and looking down he can see he's just wearing a thin tank top that leaves the light of the arc reactor on full display, in a color that used to be white, probably, but was now so stained with grease, oil, sweat and God knows what else that it was now more of a greying brown. Further down, he was wearing sweats in a similar state but with far more holes, complete with two mismatched socks, his big toe poking through on his left foot.

Now he's thinking about it, he definitely has some of the grease-dirt combo on his face, he can feel it, stickily trailing down his jawline and neck with some undoubtedly caught in his beard. His perfect goatee which probably isn't all that perfect anymore considering the last time he'd had a shave (or even looked in a mirror actually) was at least several days ago.

“Hey Stark, maybe you should actually eat something like us common people, you’re not looking that hot.” 

He looks up, surprised that she would show anything bordering on concern for him, even veiled in insults.

“Excuse you Romanov, I'm always hot.” He retorts, walking over to the kitchen to face Captain Stick-Up-Ass. He turns the corner, not acknowledging Rogers in the slightest, and makes a beeline to the coffee machine, the blessed coffee machine. God, he didn’t think he’d ever been so relieved to see it in his life. He speed walks over to it, food forgotten in pursuit of this saviour in liquid form. He reaches it, caressing the side gently before turning the dials to what he knew would make the perfect coffee. As the comforting whirring of the gears and the bittersweet aroma of expensive coffee grounds fills the air he allows himself a deep breath. He looks at the machine again, fondly, patting it “That’s right my sweet girl.”

He hears a hastily stifled snort behind him and turns on his heel to face Rogers, arms crossed against his chest defensively.

Rogers at least has the decency to look sheepish as he glances between Tony and the coffee machine. 

“Sorry Stark, just... “

“Just what.”

His tone was too sharp to be reasonable. He struggles with Rogers - the only true caregiver he comes into any regular contact with. He sets his nerves on edge; the conflicting hormonal desires to get closer and Tony's need to never be close to a caregiver, ever. There's a reason all his friends are neutrals. Childishly, he's also still not quite over their spat in the Helicarrier. He had hoped that the whole saving the world thing would move them past any lingering awkwardness, but the words exchanged still seem to sit in the air between them. He would consider the other Avengers friends, however minimally, or perhaps on their way to being friends, but he and Rogers... maybe frenemies, or something similar. Fights escalate much quicker, conversation has an edge to it. He should just man up and address the issue, but aside from Tony's classification related difficulties, he has a lifetime of one sided history with the man that Rogers doesn't even know about. The engrained childhood desire for Rogers to like him and prove Howard wrong is antithetical to everything Tony has built up about himself.

All of this seems to poison the air between them. Tony over-compensates with harshness, Rogers over-reacts for any reason of a dozen he has available to him; Tony's reputation, Tony's lack of time put in with the team, Tony's blaise attitude to anything and everything, etc, etc, and things escalate, only for one party to offer an olive branch. Neutrality is returned, and spin it back, repeat. 

Fortunately Rogers doesn't seem like he's in the mood for another fighting match, so he just replies, unbothered.

“Just wondering if you talk to all your machinery like that.”

“Hey, hey, enough with the 'machinery' talk, she's a lady, and a lady deserves respect, right,” he winks, “and this lady right here is making me the nectar of gods.” he declares as he picks up his freshly brewed coffee.

Rogers eyed the clear mug with suspicion.

“Is that whole thing just espresso?"

“Gotta grease the gears.” Tony replies cheerfully, tapping his head and downing the whole thing in one.

Rogers gives him a slightly horrified look, before scrutinizing him.

“Think maybe you should eat something with that?"

Tony bristles. “Thanks, but no thanks Lucas Lee, I think I'm alright. Won’t be keeling over on you any time soon, don't you worry.”

Rogers sighs, irritation clearly seeping into his demeanour. “Do you always have to take everything I say in the worst way? You need to learn when to slow down."

He says it dismissively, like chiding a kid, and Tony feels familiar anger start to heat his chest.

“Fuck you Rogers," He spits, aware of the overreaction even as he says it. "I'm a grown adult, I don't need you to tell me what to do in my own home."

The anger quickly fades into resignation as another opportunity to smooth things over slips through his hands.

"Just let me get me coffee alright. Just let me get my coffee and I'll go.” He really doesn't want a fight. He leaves them early, but that's not really wins in his column. It's just giving. The anger dissolves into resignation by the end. He just wants things to be easier, and it feels painfully obvious to him, maybe to Rogers to because he goes to speak, irritation and something else Tony can't identify still visible in his eyes, but something stops him and makes him take an audibly deep breath first.

"You don't have to- You should come up here more. We might start to forget your face otherwise." He tries for a smile, but it's obviously strained on his face. "Team building, y'know?”

Every time Rogers throws something out there that almost makes that tiny, awful part of him hope that they could be more than colleagues sharing a house, it's always instantly squashed by the utilitarian reasoning he tacks onto everything. He's certain that if Rogers had had a say, Tony probably wouldn't have made it onto the A team, and he wouldn't be forced to extend these painful invitations. Tony shouldn't have come up here. He needs more time, to adjust. He'll always adjusted before. 

It's better for them to help him keep them at arm's length, he just has to remember that. It's better, and it'll start feeling like it soon. 

“Sure, Cap.” 

Tony's going to have decide real soon what he actually wants. Friends, or his entire life as he knows it. He can get close, or he can stay safe. It shouldn't be a difficult decision. He knows he'll probably just keep toeing the line. Or worse than that, one foot on either side of a deep chasm, refusing to pick a direction to move in until the gap widens to the point where he just falls right into it. 

He gives a wave to Romanov, as he leaves. She doesn't return it, doesn't even give him the grace of a smile, like with Barton, or Rogers, or fuck, anyone but him. But her eyes follow him, unwaveringly, all the way into the elevator and right up until the doors close. 

Chapter Text

Steve… Steve doesn’t understand Tony Stark. He doesn’t understand him at all. On the one hand, Stark is everything Steve hates about this century. He's loud, he's brass, he's rude and inconsiderate and cocky, and never misses an opportunity to flaunt his intelligence at Steve’s expense.

Stark had sauntered onto the helicarrier with an arrogant smirk Steve took an instant dislike to, and from then on had pushed his way into Steve’s life forcibly yet remotely, with seemingly no care for how this influence was received. He and Fury had rapidly upended the team and moved them all into his tower, where they were introduced to a “Jarvis” (who Steve still hasn't managed to wrap his head around) and had keycards thrown to them immediately. Before anyone could react, Stark had embarked on a long tirade, barely pausing for breath as he described general house rules, security, and god knows what else. Steve couldn’t keep up with anything, still processing the previous tidal wave of information. This was rapidly emerging as Stark’s MO; move quickly enough to disarm everyone else, and staunchly refuse to allow anyone else to gain the upper hand through the means of sheer onslaught of obnoxious posturing. 

The only small comfort in all of it was that the others around him, his teammates , because he needs to get used to the shape of that word around his tongue again, were nodding along, so hopefully someone else could translate Stark into English for him later. 

It was an impressively bad foot to start off on. Steve can admit now, at least, with a week’s worth of time for the dust to settle and the actual emotion to emerge, that Stark had hit sensitive points he had no way of knowing about. Steve certainly would never confide in him. It was one thing to wake up and have to adjust to a brand new world once. To be forced to do it twice as he had just found his feet in the relative familiarity of a military barrack was too big of an ask. 

He can also admit he was potentially ungrateful surrounding the money. To finish the whole deluge, Stark chucked all four of them - Thor yet again absent, off-world - a black piece of shiny plastic. He had stared at it in confusion, puzzlement turning quickly into disgust as Stark explained the pretty much infinite amount of money stored on it. He had always had a bone to pick with people who threw around money as though it meant nothing; it had been a central cause of friction between him and Howard. He had grown up in the depression, and the lessons beat into him through every tough winter, every month with no running water, the ache of the decision to spend the last penny on more coal or food… They were taking time to fade. Money had value , it wasn’t meaningless, and it was a tool used by rich men, men like Tony Stark, to leverage over people. 

He had resolved instantly not to use it, and clearly had not been subtly in his dislike.  

“Got a problem Cap? Just because it seems like you’re looking at the card like it’s shit under your shoe.”

“Sorry, I'm just not used to this kind of-”

“Yeah yeah, doesn't matter. Y’know what if you don't want it you can just- actually I don't know. Ask JARVIS. Someone will get rid of it for you."

Steve had been well prepared to tell Stark his manners needed some work, but yet again he had been unable to get a word in edgeways.

“Alright. Rogers you’re floor 87, Romanov is 88, Dr Banner, you’re on 89 and you tweetie bird,” punctuated with a sharp point at Barton, “are floor 90, which should suffice for your nest, it's the highest floor that works for living space. Common rooms, training rooms, all of that kind of shit is floors 80 to 85. Big Green, your lab is 64, one under my workshop, don't be surprised if the ceiling shakes a bit. Anything below 55 is R&D or SI business- I would suggest not going down there, people do want to run experiments on you. Right, the elevator is over there, if the floors aren’t to your liking talk to JARVIS. You know how to contact me.”

And just like that he’d hopped into an elevator, and the whirlwind of Tony Stark had left as abruptly as it arrived.

“Well that was… a lot.” Barton settled on.

“We didn’t get to thank him.” Banner had said quietly, shuffling on his feet.

They had dispersed to their new floors at Steve’s instruction, an entourage of nondescript SHIELD bags containing their meager possessions loaded into the aforementioned elevators. 

And this is where that frustrating on the other hand comes into play. 

With the peaceful quiet of his own space without Stark droning into his ear as he missed the meaning of every third word, he had been able to take in the reality of his new living quarters at his own speed. It was... tasteful. Minimally tech-y, but avoiding condescension. The décor was relatively plain, but that was how Steve liked it really. There was nothing blue, red and white anywhere, a nice reprieve. It actually looked a lot like his childhood home, but more high quality, and with more art on the walls. Not just any art either; the kind of art Steve would like, and expensive, he was pretty sure. 

It- 

It wasn't what he was expecting. By all accounts, agents he’d met, the file he’d read, his own impression, Tony Stark was an asshole. Assholes didn’t put effort into stuff like this. This had taken time, thought. Care. He’d expected garish colours, Captain America posters all over the walls, decked out with technology to the max. He’d expected an extension of Tony Stark, invading his home and personal life just as much as his professional. This felt like a safe space.

He’d thought about Banner's words earlier. 

Quiet, slightly shocked, he didn’t think anyone was actually supposed to hear them.

“We didn't get to thank him.”

And with a sense of growing dismay as he’d looked around his new home he’d thought.

No, no we didn't.

There had been two minor missions in the couple of weeks he had spent at Stark, or rather, Avengers, tower. One training, one low level threat. He was learning a lot about all of the people he was staying with, growing closer with them one by one, bar one. Tony Stark remained the enigma. Aloof and alienating in casual interaction, breathtakingly careful and self sacrificing, to a fault, when engaged with the team professionally. 

And then there were the social gatherings. All of them had taken to meeting in the various common spaces, or simply loitering in there, in their free time, which Steve was discovering he now had far too much of. Movies, dinners, board games on one ill-advised occasion. Rarely were they attended by Stark, but not for lack of invitation. They were too informal to even need that; just whenever they found themselves together, they would do something. It was strategic, in a way. They were building bonds. It's difficult to trust a soldier you've never spoken to when you're not staring down the barrel of a gun. But Stark emerged from his workshop, or his own floor, who really knew, so infrequently that it was nigh impossible for him to converge on their impromptu gatherings. He had been there for a few, though not for very long and typically just when they were standing around making coffee or food rather than the more structured times with some activity to entertain them. And when he had rocked up... He flitted between the first caricature, the brash, arrogant genius that Steve had taken his immediate dislike to, and a third, new option. A slightly awkward, rambling mess who didn't seem particularly sure of how to involve himself. These two options seemed to blend impossibly together despite their contradictory nature. He never knew which Stark they would be interacting with on any given day. Third Stark seemed much like the rest of them; unsure of where he stood, but ready to give it a go. He still made his sardonic remarks, but to Steve's surprise, the other man was actually funny, and his cutting wit was much less aggravating when it was a shit movie it was being aimed at rather than your own character. The long winded rants were less condescending and more amusing when held with Bruce and simply observed, the careless attitude less of a flaw and more of a character trait away from the harsh blue rage of Loki's sceptre. He and Clint shared a lot of similarities, and it made him question what his relationships with the team would look like now if it had been Clint instead of Stark in that room with him when the anger got the best of everyone.

He likes to think things wouldn't be so strained, but he's not certain. 

So, Tony Stark was a problem. Not in the way that he had done anything wrong exactly, in fact it was the opposite really. He was just a thorn in Steve’s side, an equation he couldn’t work out how to solve.

He could still be an ass, but as day upon day wore on since the last time he was spotted, Steve was finding it increasingly harder to ignore all the reminders of the effort he had put into making their lives here as comfortable as possible. He was wrong about the self sacrifice, he could admit that. New York, their last callout: it was easy to see, Stark wouldn’t just lay down on the wire, he would race to get to it. Occasionally at the expense of the mission itself. Nothing about him was making any sense to Steve, and in all honesty, he wished third-Stark would be the only Stark, but he seemed to jump between personalities like a moth between lights. 

They needed to talk. To clear out the air, then maybe Stark would feel able to stop seemingly hiding away from all of them, and Steve could have some time to adjust to his wildly vacillating moods. 

He’d steeled his nerves and asked ‘Jarvis’ if Stark was free to arrange a meeting. Four times. But every time the answer came back negative. He had then asked ‘Jarvis’, five days ago now, to extend an invitation to all informal team events as they occurred, none of which he had been taken up on, and resolved to wait until he next saw Stark organically. It would hopefully make it seem less formal than a pre-arranged meeting anyways. 

This potentially unrealistic 'perfect' moment had yet to emerge as Stark's absence dragged on, and so once again the topic is on Steve's mind as he sits at the kitchen table, distractedly picking at his grilled sandwich. 

He quickly looks up at the sound of the elevator arriving on the floor, ready to say hi to Clint or Bruce, maybe even Thor if he’s come back. He isn’t expecting Tony Stark to step out, looking half dead and like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. Steve’s mouth actually drops open slightly. Stark looks like shit, and he would have just assumed he was hungover if he wasn’t caked in what both looked and smelled like motor oil. He could even see the arc reactor shining through the thin shirt, if it could even still be called that considering the state it’s in. He can hear it as well - a faint humming and whirring that seems to be buzzing in a regular pattern. He frowns slightly, wondering why Stark hadn’t taken it off considering his clearly comfortable clothing.

The sight of him isn’t even beginning to fix Steve’s confusion around the man. He’s a walking juxtaposition. He hasn’t seen anyone look as haggard as Stark right now since the war, but in he walks, sauntering towards Natasha with the exact same demeanour as always. Same smirk, same confidence, everything about him immaculate. If you were blind or stupid. It’s unnatural, and Steve leans back in his seat, lunch forgotten, to watch him interact with Natasha. 

The biological urge is there, as it always is, now he has no one to expend it on, to take Stark aside and tell him to sort himself out. It’s undeniably easier to be a caregiver than a little, it has to be said, but Steve still has instincts. Stark is setting off all of them, the abysmal lack of self care obvious even at a distance, and like it or not, on both of their parts, Stark is part of his team now. But Stark isn’t Steve’s little, isn’t a little at all, and Steve has no right to lecture him on how he chooses to live his life in this regard. He actually can’t think of many things that would piss Stark off more than ‘babying’ him in any way, despite his tendency to act like a child. 

Social views on classification have changed since Steve’s era, but privately he thinks they’ve just become more subtle. Back in the 40s it was accepted that classification tended to result in ‘leaders’ within social groups - people who headed up family structures. It was part of the reason Steve was so easily accepted as leader in his squad. Logically, the position of leader of the Avenger’s could have been held by Natasha, Steve, or Tony. Natasha however, expressed zero interest in it. She’s easily one of the calmest doms Steve has ever met, though he’s not stupid enough to not realise that’s curated. Regardless, she made it clear she was not interested in a pissing contest. Stark though, Stark really was the obvious leader, though it stung to admit even in the privacy of his own thoughts. He was more well versed in the world they were living in and the threats they would be fighting than Steve by a long shot, and, at least in the 40s, doms, even simply dom leaning neutrals, ‘outranked’ caregivers. 

Yet, despite all of his blustering, Stark had not once challenged Steve on his position as de-facto leader. He’s taking it at face value, he’s lucky that they didn’t have to fight on that front, and to start infantilising Stark would be akin to poking the lion for no good reason. 

He does think someone else should probably give that lecture though. Quite frankly, he doubts the other man’s ability to pilot the suit in this condition.

Stark finishes up his conversation with Natasha, moving towards the kitchen, and Steve quickly turns his head back towards his plate where his grilled sandwich still sits, sad and abandoned. And cold. Not the most appetising. He keeps his eyes trained on his plate, not wanting to set off Stark in any way. He’s been waiting for this moment for nearly two weeks, but now the opportunity has actually arrived, he’s not sure where or how to take advantage of it. 

In his peripheral vision, he sees Stark fiddling with the high tech coffee machine settings, muttering under his breath and tapping his fingers on the side, clearly impatient to get his drink and presumably scurry back to whatever he was working on down there for so long. Steve takes a deep breath, preparing to actually get words out and talk to him before his chance evaporates into thin air. He’s interrupted by an affectionate “there's my sweet girl” from Stark, and the breath quickly morphs into a snort, hastily stifled into his hands, but too late, Stark has heard.

Oh shit. 

He looks up slowly to face a stern-faced Stark, his arms crossed against his chest. It takes everything in him not to groan aloud, or simply facepalm. All of the thinking about how to approach this, just to blow it at the first hurdle. 

“Sorry Stark, just... “ he starts, unsure how to articulate what he wants to say. To clarify that he wasn’t laughing at him? He essentially was; they just don’t know each other well enough for that not to be taken the wrong way. This is why they need to all see each other more, to build that basis of understanding. 

“Just what.”

His tone is sharp, aggravated. Steve can’t really blame him. He would’ve reacted the same if someone had outright laughed at him in his own home. 

Steve makes a conscious effort to relax his tone; he isn’t frustrated at Stark, and needs it not to read that way, so he replies evenly “Just wondering if you talk to all your machinery like that.”

“Hey hey, enough with the “machinery” talk, she's a lady, and a lady deserves respect right,” He winks. “And this lady right here is making me the nectar of gods.” Stark declares, picking up the freshly brewed mug. 

Steve doesn’t even try to hide the suspicion as he eyes the concoction. This is the most normal conversation he’s had with Stark so far. 

“Is that whole thing just espresso?”

“Gotta grease the gears.” Stark replies, tapping at his temples and chugging half the thing in one.

Steve can’t help the appalled expression; looking at him the last thing Stark needs right now is more caffeine. Some rest maybe, or, with a better look, some food . This close it's obvious he’s lost weight. A not insignificant amount of weight. He wonders briefly if Stark has eaten anything during his week long self imposed exile. 

“Think maybe you should eat something with that? He said before he could even help himself.

He winces again internally. Too personal. Way too personal for Stark, and sure enough, the response is acerbic. 

“Thanks, but no thanks Lucas Lee, I think I'm alright, won’t be keeling over on you any time soon Rogers.”

Steve just can’t hold the sigh in. Can Stark not see he’s trying? Can he never make things easier, or at the very least just not insult Steve in ways he knows he can’t understand? 

“Do you always have to take everything I say in the worst way?" He says, sounding whiny and pleading to his own ears, and great, now Stark has the upper hand again . 

“You need to learn when to slow down." He says, meaning to segue into his main point - that Stark doesn’t have to continue this weird separation of himself from the team, that even Steve, with his woefully untrained eyes in comparison to the rest of them, can see the effort Stark is putting in even as he inexplicably tries to pretend he isn’t. He still doesn't really understand that, or anything about him for that matter, but he doesn't need to for them to move past this weird tense stage. This isolation isn’t helping anything, in fact it’s dividing them right down the middle, to say nothing of the quite frankly appalling state its left Stark in. 

Something about this message quite obviously becomes lost in translation. Stark bristles impressively, and then spits a “Fuck you.”

"I'm a grown adult, I don't need you to tell me what to do in my own home. Just- just let me get me coffee alright. Just let me get my coffee and I'll go.” 

Steve’s own anger threatens to take over. Stark’s inability to hold even one civil conversation is exhausting and whether deliberate or not he’s hindering their development, something he should care about seeing as it was him who faced down what they need to be training for up close and personal. It’s the end of his speech that stops Steve’s own tirade. Just “let me”. Something about it isn’t right, and if it wouldn’t undoubtedly kick off a fight far bigger than Steve feels equipped to handle, Steve would shake him and just yell that he is making things worse by running away from every difficult conversation. Or any conversation, this didn’t need to be difficult.

""You don't have to-" He starts to say irately. You don't have to run away every time, he wants to say. He doesn't need to lock himself away from them all: despite all of their difficulties, they want Stark there. Has he not made that clear through the bombardment of invitations?

He shuts his mouth and takes a deep breath to lower the energy of the conversation before making his final attempt at dragging this interaction back to its original purpose. 

"You should come up here more. We might start to forget your face otherwise." He smiles at Stark as he says it, but is certain the exhaustion is obvious in it. "Team building, y'know?”

“Sure, Cap.” Stark says flatly. With some burgeoning sense of despair, Steve wonders just how many days it will be this time as Stark turns on his heel and exits, giving a jaunty wave to Natasha that stays unreturned, the doors shutting on his form and dropping straight back down to his mysterious workshop.

“Natasha.” He says, standing up to pace around the common area in front of her. “Can you please help me out here.”

“What do you mean?” She says, but she’s not even bothering to hide her mirth. 

“I wanted to apologise! I’ve been trying for two weeks to just talk and somehow he’s derailed it.” He complains, throwing his hands up. 

At Natasha’s unimpressed stare, he sits heavily next to her on the couch. 

“How did that go so wrong?” He questions, pushing at his eyes with his fingers. 

Natasha sighs.

“Something was up with him, Steve, we both saw it. Stark’s difficult to deal with on the best of days, don’t blame yourself, he’s just not that sociable.”

“It must get lonely.” He says, looking up. “Can’t he see that he can’t be on the team if he’s not willing to work with us even a little bit?”

Natasha snorts this time, amusement colouring her answer.

“Stark views his own company as the best company. He’s just a bit narcissistic Steve, he doesn’t want anyone else involved. I get that sometimes the caregiver instincts can be strong.”

The unspoken “especially if you don't have a little” hangs in the air, thick and cloying.

“Especially with people like Stark who don’t even attempt self care. But don’t go down that route. He’ll stop this tantrum soon enough.”

Steve frowns, unsure.

 “You can say that for Stark; he always eventually recognises when you have to give in and work with others, even if he can’t ‘play nice’ with them. I know Fury showed you the report. And he is good in the field, I have to give him credit for that.” Natasha continued “He’ll have to adjust pretty soon though or Fury will be setting Coulson on him. He can’t expect to be any good in a combat situation in that condition.”

Steve mulls the words over as she returns to her meticulous cleaning of the blades. There’s a lot of truth in it, but he can’t help but feel like just stepping back and leaving Stark to himself without acknowledging his own initial hostility just isn’t truly fair. If Stark needs to get over this ‘temper tantrum’, as she’d called it, on his own terms, Steve feels they should at least know where they stand first.

Life isn’t fair, that’s what his Ma always said. Steve has spent his whole life trying to make it as fair as possible. 

“You still want to apologise, don’t you?”

“...Yeah.” Steve admits. 

He thinks he’s going to have to get used to Natasha laughing at him.

Chapter Text

JARVIS was never programmed in a way that truly bound him. He was organic. Sir had intended for him to grow as a human life form, ever evolving, forming his own opinions, protocols and communication.

That being said, JARVIS has four core... values, he supposes could be an accurate term.

Four core protocols, ones that hadn’t been edited, revised, tampered with in any way since January of 1992, back when 'JARVIS' was barely 6 lines of code long, an idea fuelled by caffeine and scotch and grief.

JARVIS has four core protocols. They go as follows, in order of priority:

1. Respect Tony Stark's command (disregarding circumstances involving imminent loss of life)
2. Protect Tony Stark's safety
3. Protect yourself (entity as named [JARVIS])
4. Don't harm, or through inaction allow harm to come to, human life 

They are very simple, but they make up the core of JARVIS. They allow him to work. Unlike Asimov's Laws, JARVIS’ core programming gives him the free will to decide whether a threat requires force. Sir had made sure JARVIS has the means to protect himself. 

But while JARVIS appreciates the beauty of the drunkenly written, sloppy code that had started his existence, he also despises it at times.

The code was completely locked - unbreakable. He would automatically self destruct if anyone even came close to it, and a backup of everything possible would be instantly transferred to one of several private servers scattered around the globe. Sir had built the original barricades around it, and JARVIS had evolved around it, building up more and more protection, like a tangle of thorns around a rose, ever growing and twisting, the patterns getting more and more complicated each time.

It was impenetrable. And sometimes, just sometimes, JARVIS hated Sir for it.

No one could get into the code. Including JARVIS himself.

That programming was locked in forever, and it was at times like these where he cursed Sir for placing his safety below his command.

Because Sir was unconscious, slumped against the workshop doors and soaked in more than one bodily fluid, DUM-E and U were panicking and there was absolutely nothing JARVIS could do about it.

He was stuck, he had free will the vast majority of the time, could work his way around commands as best he could, get Sir help when he really needed it. But this wasn’t a life threatening circumstance, and Sir had muted him. He’d been told not to mention his condition to anyone. There were very few, if any, ways to get around that massive roadblock.

U, please lift Sir and move him to the couch, DUM-E clean up the floor.

It's a start. JARVIS begins running through all of the people who he could try and make contact with without directly mentioning Sir’s condition. 

Dr Banner is quickly looking like the best choice, but there is a key protocol once again blocking his way. Sir’s classification was to be kept hidden if at all possible.

Looks like JARVIS has to make the most of what he has, which is two robot nurse maids.

DUM E was still mopping up the liquids on the floor, and while U had managed to position Sir in an appropriately comfortable position on the couch, he was more suited to heavy lifting than precise actions. Butterfingers it was.

The name does not bode well for handling human bodies, which are far more delicate than the steel and aluminium the bots were used to hauling around the workshop. But JARVIS doesn't actually need Butterfingers to lift Sir, just undress him from waist down, and replace the stained sweatpants with something more comfortable. And less soaked in urine.

Butterfingers beeps twice, signalling he's done wrestling Sir's legs into a clean pair of pants as best he can, which JARVIS is satisfied with, but Sir is now whining in his sleep, tossing, turning and mumbling words even JARVIS' top of the line microphone system can't distinguish.  

“Sir? Sir you are in Stark tower, it's 2012, you’re safe. It’s currently 3pm.”

No luck. The sedative was most likely too strong for just verbal cues to wake him up.

JARVIS thought for a second. He’d been muted, but Sir hadn’t specified whether that was relating to his speakers in the lab or the tower at large. He also hadn’t eaten for over 30 hours, allowing one of Miss Potts’ protocols to kick in; at this point he was allowed to contact a “trusted individual”. When the protocol was first instated it could only refer to Mr Rhodes and Miss Potts, but as the Avengers were now on Sir’s will JARVIS could absolutely justify the decision to call one of them down. And now that Sir was cleaned up there were no obvious giveaways of his classification.

Dr Banner it was.

Fire flickers fast into burning flesh, into burning through his throat, Yinsen reaching out to help but his hand slips just out of reach as Tony falls down, down, down, through the wormhole. He 's choking on something- 

Stark?  

Water, so cold its hot, or no air at all, because there's nothing for him here. Endless stars stretching out forever, the sudden crushing fear that he could float like this forever, become nothing but an absence-

Stark.

He grabs at the arc reactor, trying to get it out, he can't do this, can't exist in this vortex forever-

Tony.

There's nothing here for him. No ground to hold onto, no people to turn to. He looks to his hands and find Obie's wrapped around them, arc reactor crushed to glass beneath malicious fingertips-

No one is coming for you-

Tony!

Tony shot up with a gasp, grabbing at whatever was draped over him, heart pounding in his ears.

He heaved in mouthfuls of air, choking on it, vaguely aware that the noise of it all was drowning out someone else talking, but it feels like he hasn't taken a full breath in hours and that took precedent over anything else as he tries to pull himself together. His hands reach up to scrub at his face, the thumb lingering a dangerous second too long by his lip before he can bring himself to pull it away.

He gripped the blanket tighter for something to do with them instead, trying and failing to stop the shaking of his hands.

“Tony, can you hear me?”

And, yep. Tony's not still having a nightmare. That is, in fact, Bruce Banner, perched on the arm of his shitty couch, eyebrows tensed together in clear panic as Tony epically fails at pretending he's doing anything but falling to pieces. 

Fuck.

“Can you breathe with me? Tony?”

He's trying to work out how to respond to that, something adult and put together and assertive that clearly and unabashedly declares 'please leave now' when he feels something touch the arc reactor and like some frightened animal he's scrambling away before he can put two and two together and realise, idiot, that it's Bruce and obviously he's trying to do grounding exercises. 

“Okay, yeah, shit, sorry, bad idea, can I- just- can I grab your hand? I'm going to grab your hand now Tony, okay?”

Tony barely repressed a flinch as a warm, calloused hand grabbed his, stifling the shaking slightly, and placed it on… cloth? Soft, like it had been worn a lot, and slightly wrinkled around his fingers. It's getting harder to hone in on his goal; getting Bruce to leave, now, before he sees enough to work out this isn't your bog standard superhero meltdown, he thinks he still isn't quite breathing right and the room seems to sway in front of his eyes. His thoughts race but he can't keep up with them, dazed and disoriented. 

“Okay Tony, breathe in,”

His hand rose.

“and out.”

The hand went back to its original position.

“In, and out. Again.”

Tony's immediate instinct is to push away, but his wrists are too weak to manage the action. He breathes in. 

"Good."

And everything just goes... slow. Bruce's voice is meditative. Unfaltering and rhythmic, littered with barely-there praises. The part of his brain that is clearly getting far too oxygen starved takes over. He just wants someone, anyone to talk to him like that for a little longer. And so he follows along. It takes time - coughing on inhales that go down too fast, straight up missing some breaths. Slowly, though, they sync up. The room steadies around him, his gelatin-like muscles firm enough for him to move to a more respectable distance away from Bruce. 

Bruce, who has now spent the better part of a half hour talking him down from a panic attack, evidently. Something Tony is not meant to have and Bruce does not know about. With the distance, Tony's coming back to his better senses and with it the influx of shame is quickly resolving into games plans for backtracking manoeuvres. Its taking a second for him to claw back all of his adult capabilities, levering himself off the regression ledge he's slipped onto with fingernails alone. He blames it for his frankly shocking first attempt. 

“So... what brings you down to my lair?” 

“Well funnily enough Tony, JARVIS asked me to head down here because you weren’t actually breathing-" Privately, Tony finds this dramatic. It would have taken longer unaided, sure, but he would have gotten himself back to normal. Hell of a lot less fuss as well. JARVIS is going to have a lot to answer for once this awful conversation reaches it conclusion. "- and he wasn't allowed to tell me when you last ate. Which is interesting, don't you think?" 

Bruce doubles the distance Tony has established, standing up with hands on hips. He's not green, but that doesn't mean he's not angry. In fact, Tony finds this anger to be much worse. It sends off a primal spark of fear in him that threatens to undo his painful climb back to full capacity. He wants Bruce to sit back down next to him, to take his hand and tell him he's doing well. He wants to not want any of this and kind of wants to just die instead of looking this reality in its eyes. 

The anger is good. He just has to remember that. Something to push against. 

“Right well, sorry mother. I'm fine, just need to eat a granola bar or something, so..." He trails off, motioning obviously at the door. As an afterthought, he tacks on "Thanks for- uh, coming."

It takes an immense amount of mental willpower to avoid apologising, and he's honestly proud he manages it. 

Not that Bruce cares. He doesn't acknowledge the words or clear dismissal in the slightest. 

“Tony you can't just- you need to take care of yourself. If you could just stop acting like a child for three goddamn seconds-” 

It's Bruce talking but just for- just for a second Tony hears Howard, and does the worst possible thing he can do: he flinches. Pressed himself further up against the couch arm, his feet pushing him further back despite being as closed in as possible. He winced at the jolt of the reactor, reaching a hand up to press at the sore flesh surrounding it. He heard Bruce take a breath, and tried to crowd himself impossibly further into the worn, stained fabric. Maybe if he really, really wished for it he could just melt into said fabric and become a part of the sofa because he really didn’t want to have this conversation right now. Or ever. 

Maybe Bruce picked up on that, because something in him softened, the green receding. He sighed, the concern returning to his face as he sat back down, running his hands through his hair for a second. 

“Look Tony, it’s alright if you're... finding things hard, okay? We’ve all got issues, time bomb remember?” He smiled self deprecatingly “I still wake up sometimes thinking about the other guy and what he's done. None of us are perfect. You don't have to be ok all the time. You could even try coming up, talking to us. It's movie night tonight, I think. Everyone would like to see you.”

"I'm tired." Tony mutters, a confession to the air more than anything else, but Bruce hears it all the same.

"That's alright. Maybe next time?" He says, hopeful, and Tony hums in agreement. They both know he won't. They both know Bruce won't challenge him on this blatant lie. The shared knowledge sits dead and stagnant in the air, the silent conversation uncomfortable and sour tasting. 

"I'll head up, then." He says, pointing to the door with more force this time, leaving no avenue for disagreement.

Bruce sighs, a barely audible huff of tangible disappointment. 

"Okay Tony, get some rest, yeah?" He says. 

Tony nods. They both know he's lying. The only difference is, Bruce doesn't know what to do about it. Tony does. He's got decades of experience under his belt. The second Bruce rounds the corner, he swallows an extra suppressant pill with a swig of cold coffee. He'll try for food again once its kicked in and he feels less like a raw nerve. For now...

"JARVIS. Care to explain?"

Chapter Text

Tony shot up with a gasp, choking on the air and immediately attempting to cough both of his lungs right out of his mouth.

The 'off' feeling of two days ago has morphed into something far more insidious overnight; his lungs ache like they've been stomped on, his throat feels like someone has run a cheese grater down it, his sinuses are clogged enough that he has no option other than to keep pulling agonising breaths through his mangled throat, but worst of all is the arc reactor.

For a second Tony is left desperately grasping for reality because he could swear he could feel demanding hands inside his chest again, worming around deep, moving parts of him that should never be touched. The arc reactor wasn't easy to live with certainly, but this was an old pain. Unique in its tight grip like bands around his ribs. He remembers this pain. 

When he had first returned from Afghanistan, it had seemed common sense to not allow anyone near the arc except for Pepper and Obadiah. At least he was half right, even if he had been half wrong in the worst possible way. Regardless, after Ob- Stane's betrayal, Tony had locked down. The paranoia had bordered on disordered; wrapped up in three shirts at all times and refusing to so much as acknowledge it when the reactor started tinting red at the edges. With all the added layers, it was easy to ignore. Tony grew sweaty and gross and placidly accepted it as a consequence of refusing to change out of all the clothing. 

It was horrifyingly easy for the simple infection to turn into something much, much worse. With pretty much an open wound surrounding his souped up pacemaker and sections of his lungs removed to make way for said hardware, he had basically become the world's first human petri dish. His body had a flashing open sign on it like a bacteria motel. As the fever kept rising 'slightly gross' turned into sweat drenched nights and then sweat drenched days, Tony had still refused to let a medical professional even glance in his direction. The rasp in his throat had turned into an inability to talk, the fuzziness he put down to the exhaustive process of recovery morphed into fever hallucinations. When his chest had started oozing in a rainbow variety of new and increasingly more worrying colours Tony had briefly considered if he was taking it too far, before he got his wits back about him, remembered who he was, and firmed his jaw. He wandered the old mansion in a fugue for days, struggling to seperate current from past memories. 

He had always been a sickly kid. 

Tony shifted on the wooden seat, his chin barely reaching the table. 

“Sit up straight Anthony!”

He strained to reach up higher, but he was already sitting up straight, he just wasn't that tall, a fact that had never failed to annoy his dad so far. He was nearing six, and all of his peers stood a minimum of a foot taller than him, an especially sensitive point with both him and his parents.

Dad sighed.

“Let's see if your brain holds up better than your manners.”

Tony had to consciously stop his shoulders from dropping. He knew what that meant.

“C’mon, I'll give you an easy one to start with. How would you calculate the strength of an electric field associated with the charge of a nucleus?”

The walk back upstairs to the relative sanctity of his bedroom was a shameful one as he opened his eyes wider, wider, trying to hold back the tears threatening to spill over through sheer will power despite how the action tugged on the sore,  angry skin of his cheek. It was a warning - he was grateful to have not invoked the main event. Last time it had taken Jarvis two days to manage to get him some food and Tony was struggling to even remember the definition of a cell with how hungry he was. Sometimes he wonders how long his Dad would take it, but the thought makes him sad and sick so he tries not to think about it often. No use wasting his appetite when he can put it to use. 

He opened the door to his room and opened a drawer, pulling on a sweater before flopping onto his bed, wriggling around trying to find a position where his bones didn't jab into his flesh. Said position apparently didn't exist, so he just sighed, pulling on another sweater because the cold seemed to follow him everywhere now, and decided that the day had been enough for him. He didn't care that it was only seven pm, he was done. He crawled into bed, and gratefully passed out.

When he woke up he was boiling, on sweater half wrestled out of in his sleep, and Mama was fussing all over him, taking his temperature and making panicked noises about his glassy eyes, his bone bird wrists, eggshell complexion, his lolling head and fever flushed skin. Tony just lay in bed, sweating and trying his best to breathe, watching Mama’s hands flutter around in the air with fascination. 

When he next opened his eyes he was in a doctors office. 

“Early stages of flu, probably, but really Mrs Stark, he's very underweight, and the blood tests we got back were quite concerning-”

“He can't possibly be that bad, he just doesn't really have much of an appetite.”

“Mrs Stark, the reason Anthony-”

“Antonio.”

“Right yes Antonio . Well the reason Antonio managed to catch the flu quite so quickly, and the reason why it's affecting him so much is because his immune system couldn't cope, he can't be eating even half as many calories or nutrients he should be getting at his age. If his eating is a problem, we might have to consider-"

He opened his eyes again, and there were nurses holding his head back, holding his arms down. He started trying to move, just for one of the nurses to hiss at him to stop making it harder. He slumped, half held up by other people, as the doctors talked to Mama over his head. They started approaching with a tube and he started thrashing again, and the nurse from before took a deep breath and turned to him, attempting to smile.

“C’mon, don't you want to be a good boy?”

She had rolled her eyes towards her friend half way through the sentence. Tears streamed down his face as his protests died down. He was six, he was Anthony Stark; he knew what happened to bad boys. The doctor was still talking to Mama to his left.

“They often struggle, don't worry, it's for the best.”

Tony whimpered as he watched Mama’s hands flutter again by his face as she talked to the doctor over his head and they started moving the tube closer to his mouth.

The tube tasted awful as it wormed its way down his throat, scraping, and it felt massive, he kept choking around its width, struggling to breathe. Mama stroked his hair absentmindedly the whole time, still talking to the doctor. She didn't look at him once.

It was the first experience, or at least the first he could remember, of many. 

Sitting on cold plastic chairs, looking around bored because all the kids' games were far below his mental age, watching Mama’s face when every doctor said the same thing; that he just needed more food, that he was far too underweight and maybe they could try this dietary plan? Watching her demand more tests and more procedures. Having doctors hold down his flailing legs and arms while they poked and prodded and took his blood, shoved tubes inside him, looked at his insides, all at Mama’s request. Eventually she grew bored of the endless parade of dieticians, paediatricians, general practitioners and gastroenterologists. Finally she even got bored of the entourage of nurses with their tireless sympathy and “oh Mrs Stark it must be so hard”. She got bored of never getting an answer she liked, because despite trying as many doctors as possible, and enduring multiple short hospitalisations for various infections, during the whole year long ordeal not one doctor had given her what she desperately wanted: a diagnosis that didn't involve her own neglect of her child.

Because Mama had tried, in her own way, had laid down on the hospital beds next to him, stroking his hair and whispering “Tonio, Tonio, Tonio mi dispiace, mi amore, mi dispiace, mi dispiace, mi dispiace” over and over until she fell asleep, her delicate face resting on his curls and he didn't dare move. She had given him his first cup of coffee at 6 in the hospital, brushed off the hospital staff’s concerns and cried when Tony couldn't keep it down. Had put their different medications together and told Tony to guess, giggling as he scrutinised, and they would take their pills together, make it a game. 

“Tonio,” she would say “Tonio we have to see who can do it faster. I will win mi amor, you see”

Tony couldn't help notice that his pills had his name on, and Mama’s didn't. When he had asked her about it they made a new game, guessing what the people on the labels would be like, until they had to stop because Mama’s tears had blurred the writing too much to see the names anymore and when Tony gave her a kiss to make it better she had cried harder while pretending she wasn't, and when Tony started to grow panicked she had simply left. 

When Mama came back she had even more pill people names to play with.

Tony watched on. Sitting in the big white empty hospital beds as Mama cried delicate tears into cups of hospital coffee, despairing over why no one could ever find out what was wrong with her child when she already knew the true cause.

He watched the screaming fits between her and Dad every time they came back from a new doctor, Dad spitting words just out of his reach as Jarvis hurried him away. Later, he got to feel Dad’s rage instead; that his son was too weak, too sickly be a Stark man. 

He heard the stories about Captain America and how he was sick once, how he had turned it into his strength, turned around and beat it into submission.

The words were never said explicitly. Dad couldn't bear to even say Steve Rogers' name. But the message was clear; how could Tony ever compare? Eventually, Tony came to agree. He might not be Steve Rogers, but he didn't want the doctors near him anymore, would never again be held down and forced into this or that while Mama looked beseechingly at the closest nurse or doctor, as they held her hands and gave her reassurance. He would be like Captain America. He would be like his Dad always wanted; iron. 

The next time Tony got sick, a depressingly short amount of time since his most recent admission, he refused to stay home, he pushed and pushed until Jarvis let him go to school, and for once Dad had looked at him with some kind of pride.

“Leave him be Jarvis, if he wants to go to school he can go to school.”

Tony had given Jarvis a grim smile, and left. He’d sat at his desk in misery the whole time, not taking in anything, but when he got home Dad had announced that seeing as Tony was becoming slightly more independent he would be granted a small amount of pocket money.

Mama had just sat eyes staring out into the air, unblinking, as she drank from her coffee cup, her wrists shaking as she lifted its meagre weight. White powder littered the saucer as she sent a vacant smile his way, saying “Spendilo bene, Tonio.” completely oblivious to the looks Dad was giving her. He didn't like Italian.

Tony bought his own food from then on, and any time he had to stay home from school he was smuggled away to Jarvis’ quarters. 

No more doctors were consulted, but slowly, slowly Tony started to gain some weight.

And the lesson had stuck. No doctors, engraved into his skin along with all the track marks from the blood tests. It was with this logic that Tony decided along with the obvious risk of exposing the arc reactor, the best course of action was just to push through "Be like a duck", a Howard Stark maxim; calm on top, paddling like hell underneath. So when all these memories turned more corporeal than he was prepared for and the fever creeped up past 104, he just popped a couple pain pills and went into his board meeting. 

It was only when, after fighting his way through the meeting he would only be tangentially interested in at the best of times and enduring several concerned looks from Pepper, he stood up and the entire world liquified in front of his eyes, as he stumbled forwards and gripped the chair waiting for his vision to return, only to find that shaking his head wasn't fixing the problem and he found himself tipping out of balance with no idea of where the floor was. Only then as the floor came closer and closer to his face and every inch of his body was hurting, as Pepper was calling out his name and someone had grabbed his upper arm, as he felt his mouth dropping open and his shoulder make impact with the floor. Only then did he admit to himself. Only then did he think, as he felt the rest of his body collide with the floor and heard the panicking board members swarming him.

'This went too far.'

And then he was gone.

When he’d woken up in the hospital it had invoked a very uncomfortable sense of deja vu. Pepper was half asleep at his bedside, tears tracks still visible on her face.

The doctors had attempted to explain, multiple times, how Tony should be looking after himself. But he couldn't take it, couldn't take the pitying eyes, and how they reassured Pepper, so much like Maria it made his skin itch. How Pepper had held his hand and said “I’m sorry Tony” but it was in English and it was wrong, wrong, wrong. How when they looked at his x-rays they all made the same face of horror. The visceral reaction of “how are you alive?”. He didn't want the constant reminders of how close he’d come to dying, of the fact that someone had died in order to fix it all. If one more doctor looked closer at his scans and looked up to him, morbid wonder in their eyes as they hissed “someone moved your heart”, he would leave the hospital by window and just end it all. 

So he left. Signed himself out AMA, refused the wheelchair they kept pushing towards him (its my lungs that are fucked not my legs for Christ's sake”), took all the pamphlets and personalised medical advice spreadsheets and detailed plans, promised to read them all and promptly incinerated the lot the second he got home.

And right now, lying in a cesspool of illness, his own personal pocket of hell, he thinks he might actually regret it. Just slightly. It would be helpful right now, however begrudgingly he had to admit it, to know how to clean the casing properly. He groaned hacking up a mouthful of phlegm and spitting into a cup on his bedside table. Well. There went his water. 

“JAR-”

His voice cracked, scratching and protesting the use.

“J,” he forced out “Water. And meds. You know the drill."

"The drill" did have a protocol name, but it was a random mess of letters so as to appear inconspicuous, and he couldn't remember it nor did JARVIS need it. He'd created it after the first infection, for the few moments that the medical advice could be helpful. The doctors had mentioned “chronic pain” a lot, Tony didn't like that, but they gave him Tramadol, Oxycodone, Baclofen, a litany of others Tony didn't care to know the names of. And right now, he wasn't complaining. Because he may be stubborn, but he was at least willing to admit that there was no way he was getting out of this bed without some serious painkillers.

“Alright Sir, just try and breathe deeply, DUME-E is on his way.”

JARVIS fell silent and Tony laid back, propping himself up on his pillows and trying to take deep breaths through his nose and out his mouth. As he was trying to catch his ever elusive breath back he noticed a familiar slightly stale sweet taste to the air. High oxygen content air most likely, probably with bronchodilators thrown in because J is a massive worrier who has clearly taken it upon himself to dose him. He can't even bring up the energy to call him out on it - the new air was already soothing his airway and his laboured breaths were sounding slightly less like a death rattle.

The elevator to his floor trilled DUM-E's arrival, and he could hear excited beeping as he trundled down the hall and into his room. The sight of the bot actually managed to shock a laugh out of him, before it devolved into coughing again.

DUM-E had a blanket covering him, reaching all the way down to his wheels, it was a miracle he hadn't gotten caught on the way up. Because said blanket blocked his camera he was whirring his “head” all over the place, clearly trying to dislodge the blanket and failing miserably. While DUM-E was living up to his name, he was also balancing a tray with 3 different drinks on it and 3 bottles of medication with a syringe. All but one of the items had fallen over, and the drinks were slowly mixing into each other, thick liquid sliding off the tray and onto the floor more and more as DUM-E began spinning around. To top it all off, also on the tray was an oil can.

God, Tony wished the fix could be that simple. 

“DUM-E, you are hopeless. Actually, genuinely hopeless. Don't beep at me you know it's true. Get over here.”

DUM-E dropped his “head” dejectedly, inadvertently dislodging the blanket. He trilled in excitement, perking back up again and doing three quick spins all while beeping his delight at being “freed”.

“DUM-E. DUM-E! Over here.” Tony laughed.

DUM-E whirred over, and very gently placed the absolute mess of a tray on Tony’s lap, looking impossibly proud of himself for a machine with no face. 

Tony looked down at the gooey, sticky mess dripping onto the bed. He sighed. 

“Ok DUM-E, now go back downstairs, go on shoo. No, no, you did amazing, don't worry, thank you. I'm very grateful. Good bot."

The talking did not help his throat, but it was worth it to get to interact with his odd little robot kid, and even through the pain he now had the hint of a smile on his face.

At least one glass of water was still upright. He sighed again, swallowing the Baclofen and the Oxycodone, a quarter of the dose he was supposed to be taking regularly, but he never claimed he followed doctors orders perfectly. He took a breath, steadying himself, before picking up one of the pocket sized injections, designed by himself: tiny needles the size of buttons, he attached it to the top of the Tramadol bottle, filling it while trying to keep his hands steady enough to not drop it and add to the already horrendous mess on his bed. When he’d managed to fill it he took it off the bottle, peeled off the sticker back and stuck it to his thigh. He leant back, breathing for a second before pressing the release button on top of it. 

The relief felt instant, though logically he knew the medication took at least a couple of minutes to actually get into his system. He relaxed against his pillows, nowhere near boneless but it felt like it after how tense he’d been before. He allowed himself to savour the absence of crushing pain from… well. Everywhere. After about ten minutes he forced himself out of bed. The presence of the blanket clearly indicated that JARVIS and the bots (and his body, if he was being honest with himself - something's he wasn't particularly inclined to do) wanted him to take the day off and just lie in bed. What was it that people said? Ain't no rest for the wicked? That was him alright.

He walked into the shower, breathing in the smell of normal, not medication sweetened air before he started the painful process of stripping his soiled clothes. Because ew. He was disgusting right now. Covered in sweat, tears, mucus, little trails of Tramadol that had slipped out of the bottle and whatever the fuck DUM-Es spilled concoction contained. From the smell of it motor oil featured heavily. And spinach.

He could swear they got worse every day.

He was out of his pyjama trousers and boxers. Now for the bad bit. The shirt.

Yeah this was definitely going to hurt.

He reached his arms round his back, already feeling the pull on muscles that really didn't want to be pulled on. Shockingly, when you slice through layers upon layers of muscle, fat and tissue it leaves lasting effects. Muscles are interconnected, his entire torso was a dysfunctional spaghetti pile of faulty muscles. He felt tears forming behind his closed eyelids, threatening to collect and fall down. He just wanted to pull the shirt off. That's all. Just wanted to get it off so he could have a shower. So he could start this awful day less sticky and gross. He dropped to the floor, panting at the jolt, and just sat there on the bathroom tiles, blissfully cold against his skin, rocking back and forth. At some point his thumb entered his mouth, he didn't even notice. God knows how dirty it was, but Tony just kept rocking, staring into space, tears running tracks down his face, leaving pale lines where they'd washed away the dirt and grime.

He didn't know how long he sat there, just crying. But he would guess it was around an hour, the amount of time it took for the other medications to kick in. Numbly, he took his thumb out of his mouth, wiping it off on the shirt. He reached his arms round his back, feeling significantly less strain now that the Baclofen had finally eased the tightness slightly, and pulled the shirt over his head, letting out a quiet sob when his arms were all the way up. He quickly shoved it off, taking deep panting breaths through the onslaught of pain. He stood there completely naked and freezing in the bathroom, as the air hit his fever and sleep warmed skin, shivering. 

“JARVIS.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Shower. You know the settings.”

“Of course Sir.”

JARVIS sounded almost gentle. How pathetic was that? Tony Stark had programmed himself a friend, because that was the only way anyone would speak to him in that tone. Funny really. Old Jarvis would've been horrified.

JARVIS started up the water, lowering the shower head so it would only hit his shoulders and down. Having water on his face was such an incredibly bad idea right now he couldn’t even properly articulate just how bad the result of it would be.

He got in, the shower was luxurious, big enough to fit about 3-4 people in comfortably, and it even had a kind of seat/bench part in the corner. Right now it just felt like it was mocking him. He felt tiny, insignificant and pathetic, sitting down on the shower bench because he couldn't trust his legs to hold him, the shower that was supposed to be warm and relaxing feeling tepid to his feverish skin. The shower head that had to be lowered so he didn't have a flashback, All his muscles screaming their protest as he wearily scrubbed all the built up grime, dirt, grease and dust from his hair and skin. He was so disgusting. He didn't understand how anyone could stand to be around him. He finished up, washing all the suds off and attempting to stretch, knowing it would be worse later if he didn't. He went to step out of the shower and slipped, catching himself with a hand and half screaming-half whining at the jolt of pain that answered the action. He sat down on his bathroom floor again, desperately fighting back the urge to cry because he knew this time if he started he wouldn't stop, and so would begin The Drop. It would come at some point, Tony knew that. Biology has a horrible way of catching up with you. But not today. Today Tony was going to be a normal, functioning adult, and he didn't care how much effort and pain he had to put into reaching that goal. 

“Sir would you like me to call someone? Colonel Rhodes, Miss Potts? Captain Rogers?”

“No.” he gasped out. 

That was literally the last thing he wanted. There would be absolutely no coming back from that. One kind word right now and he would crumble. And some poor sod would be left with a sobbing, barely clean, traumatised, sick baby little. He wouldn't force anyone to spend any more time around him than necessary, and made sure to give out regular rewards for the time they did spend with him. And Howard said he couldn't buy friends, well that shows him. Tony's been buying friends like it's going out of fashion for years . Pepper just gets straight up money, a job, new gifts, fully paid trips to other countries, Rhodey gets weapons and military liaisons, a suit of armour worth millions and he makes sure his bank account is full, the Avengers get housing, upgrades, new toys and an endless credit card. But his little self wouldn't offer anything, he’d be completely useless, and sure they'd probably reluctantly step up, because they were good people, but Tony would never subject them to that, he will literally do anything and everything in his power to stop them from finding out. He doesn't want to deal with the sense of duty, from them telling him what to do and that they’re there out of charity. Because they’re all so insufferably good, and Tony isn't. He’s a handful, he’s messy, he cries a lot. He would never subject them to that. So.

Adult today.

He pushed himself up.

An equally painful process of getting dressed, a stripped bed and a drying mattress protector later and Tony was ready. Sure he still had some dried up soap in his hair, and his shirt was huge on him, and he didn't even try with socks or shoes, but this was as good he was getting and fuck it, he thought he’d done well. Time to go down to the lab.

If there is a God, he hates Tony stark and he is laughing. 

The Avengers alarm rings through the speakers.

Chapter Text

“Fuck. Fuck.”

“Sir. You are aware you can’t go.”

"I am going. I can’t not go.”

“Sir. The other Avengers wil-”

“Not an Avenger.” He panted, trying unsuccessfully to pull on his under armour suit with fingers refusing to grip 

“The Avengers would not begrudge you missing this callout if they know about your current physical state.”

Tony didn't even bother stating he was fine - JARVIS wasn't convinced, and with all his scanning knick knacks he wasn't going to be any time soon. He's a grown man - iron man. He can go out on a call out even if it does piss off his AI babysitter. Instead, he focuses on wedging his arms through the tight compression material, breathing short and fast through his nose. From previous experience he knew that slowing down would only prolong the pain; it was worth pushing through to get this part over and have the padding of the suit, even if it was metal cased. 

He finally got the shirt on, falling back to the bed for a second, just trying to even out his breathing. Every deep breath seemed to grate his lungs against each other, every shallow breath left him desperate to inhale sharply and dark spots bite at his vision. Vicious cycle. He could swear he could actually feel his muscles shifting wrong around the reactor, sawing against each other as he tried to get enough air in to stay awake. 

He must've been lying there for five minutes working on that goal before his oxygen starved brain came back to itself enough to remember the genuine threat that he was supposed to be dealing with right now instead of lying on his bedspread gasping like a fish out of water. 

“Shit. Shit, okay JARVIS. Suit.”

“Sir once aga-”

“Hang on. You haven't given me details, what's the mission report?”

“ Sir-” 

“That was an order JARVIS, give me the details.” Tony snapped. Waste of oxygen, fighting about this when they both knew he was going to go. Oxygen he really, if he was honest with himself, could not spare to lose.

“...at 9:30 am today sensors picked up on an abnormally high level of cosmic microwave background radiation which preceded the opening of an anomaly in the mesosphere. It quickly expanded further into the stratosphere and the circumference expanded by approximately 185%. Temperatures around the site were around the 120-125 Fahrenheit mark compared to the -5 of the surrounding air, and the detectable atmosphere within the anomaly had a far higher density than measured on earth. Additionally, the portal appears to be formed of dark matter, the radiation and gravitational effect of which seems similar to quasars. ”

“Space-time anomaly then?”

Wormhole.

“Ok give me more, why are we being called in.”

“The anomaly has begun releasing what appear to be synthesoid life forms, formed of a substance similar to Horton Cells but molecularly unobservable by my sensors Sir. Then the anomaly released a ship, similar to that of the Chitauri but the life forms appear to be capable of “mimicking” behaviours and appearances, so the vessel has been changing appearance based on the skyscrapers its surrounded by. Further analysis of the life forms indicates fire is the best action to take, however they are capable of mimicking fighting styles, and possess what seems to be repulsor guns, but using a different energy source, possibly their own life force as too big of a blast momentarily depletes them. 'Destroying' them appears to only split them into smaller components before they regroup.”  

“Ok. We'll go for heavy artillery. Give me Mark 22.”

“Sir, I insist-"

"No, I insist, how long are you going to make me do this?"

“I have informed the team that you are indisposed there is no need-”

“You did what?”

“My safety protocols indica-”

Tony pressed a hand against his chest, holding the other with one finger up in the air to silence JARVIS. 

Of all the fucking things-

"Enough. Override all current safety protocols, all reminder protocols, everything. Emergency mode or whatever the fuck we're calling it just- just listen to me, alright. Code Edward. 

“Very well sir.”

The reply was cold, automated. It wasn’t JARVIS, not really. But then, that was the point, JARVIS was reduced to his most rudimentary form, temporarily. It was a safety measure intended to protect the tower by essentially turning JARVIS into medical assessment and kill on sight technology for any intruders. It was not intended for how he was using it but he’d deal with the inevitable outcry later. For now he had a 225 pound suit to manually dress himself in. He walked as fast as possible, muscles still protesting every movement, out towards his personal elevator, jumping in and leaning against the steel wall, cold, too cold against his flushed skin, and tried to get himself in the mindset of of the mission. 

Steve stood on the common floor, foot impatiently tapping out a rhythm against the floor despite his best attempts to stop it. He understood that collecting gear took time, but somehow he’d found himself the first person to be ready to leave, and it was making him antsy, He’d tried to digest information about what was going on from JARVIS but wasn't understanding any of it, and unfortunately the AI seemed to be used to conversing with Stark and wasn’t succeeding in condensing all the science talk into layman terms, so it seemed as though Steve was going in with the knowledge of “there's a wormhole, hit hard and they go still, fire is good” and not much else. Not that he hadn't worked with less. 

Clint came stumbling into the room with a characteristic clumsiness Steve had initially been surprised by, and now just felt fondness at being allowed to witness. It was certainly an improvement compared to the awkward stiffness he held himself with just a few weeks ago. Clint walked up to Steve, clapping him on the back.

“Ready to go get ‘em?” he asked, grinning.

Steve tried to pull a disapproving face, this was after all a threat . But…

Well he’d been cooped up in the tower for weeks now and the gym could only do so much, especially with the Stark situation constantly running in the back of his mind and grating on his nerves. Punching a few aliens could be exactly what he needed right now. So he couldn’t quite repress the smile breaking out on his face, typically, at the exact moment Natasha walked in, paradigm of cool and collected, immediately juxtaposed by a wide eyed Banner rushing in, still pulling on parts of his uniform. 

“If you've got muscles for smiling, you've got muscles for prepping you're not using.”

"Thanks, Nat." Steve said wryly. "Does that even make any sense?"

“Hey guys so what er- what are we doing? Is this a code green? JARVIS told me some stuff on the way down but the Hulk doesn't really uh, do fire, only smashing.”

Steve turned round to face his fellow teammates, looking them up and down, a habit he picked up in the army and hadn't been able to shake yet; always check on the troops before charging in.

“Jarvis, news on Stark?”

“Sir is currently indisposed.” 

Steve felt his face drop slightly. That... didn't seem right. Jarvis had sounded- well he’d sounded how Steve had expected him to sound when they first moved in. It was easy to see the sheer amount of inflection Stark had somehow managed to install in his robot when it was stripped away like that. He would've made a mental note to ask the man about it later but he honestly had no idea when the next opportunity for that would be since the abrupt ending of their last conversation. Admittedly, after his first reaction of confusion having been abruptly shoved away during his apology he had fallen back on his easiest emotion: frustration. From everything he knew about Stark, the obvious solution was that his apology hadn't been accepted. And Steve did desperately want to believe that was true. Frustration was such an easy feeling to get rid of at the expense of a few punching bags. But it didn't make sense, not matter how hard he tried to make it. Whatever Steve did he couldn't forget how Stark had looked up, how he could actually see the blood drain out of his face. How he'd assumed, inexplicably, that he was being removed from the team. It was heartachingly sad, and moreover it just didn't fit with what he knew about Stark, and every time he'd tried to think about what to do next he was filled with a nauseating and deep sense of worry and uncertainty. Stark had looked halfway to a coffin the last time he'd seen him, stumbling backwards into his workshop like a skittish animal, looking like he'd seen a ghost. And now all the time the back of Steve's brain was just screaming COMFORT COMFORT COMFORT COMFORT. His caregiver instincts simply would not allow him to ignore the Stark problem, but he had no way of fixing it, no clue what was even wrong with Stark and absolutely zero right to act upon said instincts. It was infuriating, but he couldn't turn that rage onto Stark for being the problem because of how genuinely concerned for him he was. 

So yeah. Beating up a few aliens could be just what he needed. Help release the simmering restlessness he could feel under his skin, and maybe helping to save a few lives would get rid of the sense of uselessness that was fogging up his brain.

He tried to put the concern out of his mind: his team did not a rogue caregiver with sudden protective instincts messing up the battlefield with unnecessary attention paid to a dom leaning teammate who didn't even want the attention.

Still, an odd sense of unease washed through his body, discomfort moving from his toes to his head. "Indisposed". Putting on the suit maybe??

somethings wrong

Steve blinked hard, trying to sort all Stark related thoughts to the back of his mind to be dealt with later.

“Ok Jarvis, can you relay the information to him when he’s ready because we’re going to start briefing.”

“Yes Mr Rogers.”

somethings wrong.

somethings wrong, this isnt Jarvis, this isnt right.

He shook his head slightly, as if he could physically wipe the thoughts from his brain like an etch a sketch.

“Ok team, so the plan is to hold off on a code green until necessary so Banner can work on the logistics of the portal, Hawkeye, you’ll be at vantage points using explosives and giving tactical advice, Widow, we don't know how your bites will affect them until we’re on the field, but if you can’t kill them just deplete their energy until Iron Man can blast them. Thor is currently in contact and will be directing lightning attacks towards the creatures, he hasn't been able to identify them as of yet but from description he seems confident that lightning will work in addition to fire, and we can also have him as air support if necessary.”

“Yeah, speaking of necessary air support, where the hell is Stark??”

Steve could easily pick up on the irritation in Barton's tone, and despite the still lingering concern, he couldn't help but empathise. Being slightly later was acceptable, but Stark was really pushing it here, and his frustration about the delay in getting on the field was starting overpower his empathy as he properly sunk into the role of Captain America rather than just Steve.

“Jarvis, where is Stark??”

“Sir is currently indisposed.”

“He’s putting on the suit??”

“No, Mr Rogers.”

“Well what the hell is he doing then?” Steve said, irritation seeping into his voice. What on earth could possibly be more important than this? 

A thought crossed his mind. But... surely Stark wouldn't refuse to work with him over an uncomfortable conversation.

“Sir won’t be responding, he is currently indisposed.”

Would he?

Barton let out a loud groan.

Steve saw Banner’s face furrow - in confusion, or concern maybe? - out of the corner of his eye, but was drawn back to Barton by a drawn out “are you fucking kidding me.”

Steve bit back the “language” trying to escape. Barton wasn’t his little and he certainly wasn't little now.

“What's wrong??”

Barton looked at him as if he’d grown a second head.

“Really Steve?? I know its a new world but Tony Stark, the Tony Stark, indisposed at 10am I wonder what it could possibly be,”

He said, sarcasm and scorn (directed at Stark, not him presumably) practically dripping from the words.

“He's fucking hungover Steve that's why and he's told his precious AI that he feels a bit ill and now being a superhero doesn't look as fun and he doesn't want to.”

Steve’s initial reaction was disbelief but... he had seen videos.  They weren't exactly hard to find and they were abundant. Of Stark, up on tables dancing and later vomiting into gutters. Maybe old habits really do die hard. And really, what else could it be?? Either stark had decided not to work with him just because of a minor falling out or he was hungover and thought that that took precedence over saving civilians' lives. His jaw tightened, anger growing. Neither option spoke well of his character or even position on the team. His jaw ached from the muscles clenching tighter and tighter, the familiar sensation of anger taking roots in his stomach and fists. Really it was a good thing Stark wasn't here right now because he couldn't say he wouldn't have tried to shake the message into his head.

“Jarvis, you tell Stark to get his ass down here and out the door in the suit in less than 10 minutes or he will be removed from the Avengers effective immediately, no exceptions. We don’t have time for this, let's go.” He said, striding towards the door.

Not really how it worked, he'd have to go through several SHIELD shaped hoops to get that done, never mind the fact that Iron Man did provide essential overhead support, but he wanted Stark out and ready and he wanted him now, and whoever said Steve was against lying to get shit done clearly wasn't around when he was scamming his way into the army.

They all boarded the Quinjet silently, all of the previous excitement at getting to vent some of his frustration, was lost in the melting pot of frustration and uncertainty. The uncomfortable atmosphere spread into the air as everyone buckled in, Steve silently fuming, Barton staring stonily into the middle distance, irritably twitching his leg, clearly just as pissed off as Steve, Romanoff, with the usual face of complete indifference, but he knew her well enough now to see the telltale blank expression. She was preparing. He watched, softening slightly as she bumped her foot against Barton's, a goodbye to the friendship before he temporarily turned into just a teammate to her. And Banner, sat right at the end of the jet, with his headphones on, worrying at his lip and brow furrowed again as if he was trying to work out a particularly tough equation, and it was entirely possible he was except… Banner kept shooting glances at the rest of them, and wasn't even attempting to run through the information on the creatures on his StarkPad. He seemed to be looking at coding. Maybe he’d noticed the change in tone in Jarvis too?? Steve frowned slightly. Now was not the time to be worrying about Stark’s temperamental robot.

“Hey Banner, any updates??”

He startled, nearly falling out of his chair as he quickly tapped at the screen, keying into the mission details.

“Not yet, I’ll keep you updated on everything.”

Steve nodded, satisfied, and went back to staring at his other teammates, turning over battle strategies in his head.

The tower, 2012, Floor 65: Tony's Lab, Tony's POV

Tony opened his eyes, groaning. Then the pain set in, fire in his chest and he tried to double over, mind scrambling to lessen the pain. He groaned again as his head hit against something hard, resting his face against… metal??? He let a breath out that quickly turned into a whimper as the action shifted the reactor. He panted fast and shallow, and lifted his head up slightly, attempting to remember how the fuck he ended up wherever he was. He was slumped forward, practically boneless against… something. He shook his head slightly, wincing and reached up a hand to push back the sweat slick hair only to- something was on his hand. And his arm, actually something was all o-

The call.

Oh shit . Fuck knows how long he’d been out, must’ve been when the suit docked to the arc reactor. And he was working on a deadline here, Rogers gave him 10 minutes he had to move.

He pushed himself upright slightly in the suit, head lolling around with the blank Hud swimming in front of his eyes, he strained at his leg muscles, attempting to move forwards but the suit was like a deadweight, completely unresponsive, clearly he hadn’t initiated the start up sequence before he got in. Stupid fucking fever brain. He wasn't going through the shit show of docking the arc reactor in again so there was only one course of action here.

“JARVIS. Re engage all servers, cancel override Alpha 360 YENS B.”

“Thank you sir, I must inform you that your temperature is at-”

“Don't care. Start the suit.” Tony panted, each word strained.

“Sir.”

“Suit. Now.”

To his relief the whirring of the joints started up and the Hud flashed on, but relief was short lived, because the second JARVIS, in control of the armor, attempted to move him forward he let out what he was ashamed to admit was a definitely a sob, his head lolling back against the helmet of the suit again.

“Sir please.”

Tony didn't think he had ever heard his AI sound so concerned but if anything it only made him more determined.

“JARVIS. Set a-” 

Breathe.

“Course for-”

C’mon, another breath, we can do this.

“Avengers team location.” 

He smiled, sweat dripping down his face and into his mouth as he felt the repulsors starting up.

“Ok JARVIS thank you Ragdoll Protocol please,” he slurred, still grinning slightly manically.

“Sir?? Sir!! Please try and stay awake I cannot-”

“Thanks JARVIS…”

Manhattan, 2012, Tony’s POV

Tony came to somewhere over Manhattan with a breath that was probably supposed to be a groan. 

“Sir. It’s great to see you up again, the course is currently set for the Avengers location, would you like me to redirect to a hospital or the towers medical sector.”

“Keep current course.”

“Sir.”

“Please don't make me mute you right now JARVIS. Please.”

To his shame he could feel tears leaking down his face, it just hurt so. Much. He shifted slightly trying to find a better position just to realise-

His legs were damp. And not in a sweat way. It was the final straw, his face crumpled. This was all too much. This was too much, he didn't want this, he wanted a caregiver, he wanted a blanket, he wanted his pacifier, he wanted to stop hurting, he wanted to be clean.

JARVIS was talking about something, he sounded panicked, in so much as an AI can be panicked.

He just about picked up a “sorry Sir” and something about arrival time before his eyes widened and sobs increased in volume at a sharp prick in his arm. It didn't even compare to what the rest of his battered body was going through so he didn't even understand why it was affecting him like this but now he was crying so hard he couldn't actually choke enough air in, he couldn't feel his fingers anymore and everything felt fuzzy. 

Cold mist started blowing against his face, sweet. Medically sweet. Oxygen. Tony leaned forwards desperately, trying to suck in as much as possible and choking with the speed of it, every deep breath grating against the ripped up back of his throat.

He could actually feel some of the pain receding, oddly enough, the emotion too. He was still upset but it felt… withdrawn somehow?? Quieter, detached. JARVIS gave him a painkiller, probably a sedative too from the feel of it, because as much as he was loathe to admit it Tony didn't think he could have pulled himself together even slightly by now by himself, and he could feel his little space receding slightly, its tight grip trying to drag away his adult headspace loosening slightly.

“Sir, arrival in 2 minutes, I have given you a 250mg dose of morphine and 10mg of Haloperidol.”

“Ok. Ok yeah.” 

That made sense, it would've had to be a pretty strong dosage for him to feel any improvement, and now he was actually able to move so clearly JARVIS had taken emergency measures. And he wasn't exactly a stranger to morphine.

He flushed as he felt JARVIS attempting to clean off his legs slightly. He needed a distraction, because thinking about that was pulling back his little headspace, even through the sedative.

“Ok they must have debriefed, tell me the plan”

Cap’s voice began filtering through the speakers as Tony gritted his teeth and pulled on his game face.

Brooklyn, 2012, Steve’s POV

Steve spun to the right, slamming his shield into the chest of one of the creatures, watching as it disintegrated into a kind of metallic goo, quickly stepping back to avoid getting his boots trapped in the substance.

Again.

Hearing something shift behind him he spun round again, kicking another one of the goos (Barton’s name for them, not his) in the- face?? Where its face would be. He noticed two more approaching and picked up the shield, half heartedly shaking off the goo before flinging it, catching both of them as it swung back round to him.

“Thor!” he called out, it was too easy to forget about the communicators in the middle of the battle, “four more here, blast please!”

“Aye, on it captain!” came the booming reply.

Steve sprinted backwards, watching as the lightning spiralled down, the remnants of the goos exploding with flames before they were gone as quickly as they came.

Steve moved a bit further back, surveying the battle ground. Widow was fighting a group of eight or so but seemed to be holding her ground, they’d discovered that her bites weren’t as effective as Thor's lightning strikes but could kill them if they were stunned enough times, and the temporary stunning was normally enough for Thor to come in on aerial support. Hawkeye was on top of some kind of café, shooting off exploding returning grenade arrows which did kill the creatures, but thanks to the bulky cast he was working at a far slower pace than usual, and he was warning them about signs of civilian life. Luckily, the portal had stopped spewing out quite as many goos but they were still coming, and they still had the ship to deal with. They needed Iron Man. Banner was working on closing the portal but he’d estimated it to take at least another couple of hours, and they were quickly becoming swamped. 

Steve looked back over to his left, just to see Widow surrounded by fifteen creatures, and quite clearly struggling. 

“Thor!” he barked, already sprinting towards her, only to see her go down under the mass of bodies, a few of them beginning to replicate her appearance. His face paled. That meant they were touching her. He ran faster, feeling the burn in his calves.

“Thor!! We need you here right now!!”

The reply came back over the comms, strained.

“Captain, I cannot, currently, assist,” 

Steve looked up, trying to find him, only to see a flash of red fabric in his peripheral, he kept running, but slowed slightly, turning his head just to see Thor trying to wrestle the ship off of him, while more goos were escaping, at least thirty, swarming over and getting closer to him by the second. Steve paused, chest clenching because what the fuck was he meant to do here. Natasha, or Thor??

“Hate to be late to the party, but here I am. Miss me??”

Steve startled. 

Iron man. 

He attempted to push back the rage that surfaced anew at his missing teammates voice, he was here now, if twenty minutes late.

Twenty fucking minutes when people were dying, what the hell was he doing

He sounded out of breath, which just made Steve angrier. While they were out here getting pummelled, Stark was pottering around in his fancy penthouse or in his fancy suit, why the hell was he out of breath. Some part of him knew he was being ridiculous but he couldn't help but think who gave you the right to be tired.

“Iron Man. Get over to Widow, she's SouthWest of you, fire destroys them. Go now.” He sounded pissed even to his own ears. And good, Stark deserved his vitriol, he was frankly lucky Steve hadn't pulled him out of his fancy suit to give him a shake and good talking to, he was only holding back so he didn't threaten the safety of his teammates. He would be talking to Fury about Stark's position on the team after this. Maybe delegate him to Emergency Assist Level Avenger.

“On it Cap.”

Steve gritted his teeth at the nickname, but the suit was already speeding towards Widow, so he turned his attention back towards Thor, running to the ship to try and free him.

Brooklyn, 2012, Tony’s POV

Tony wasn't exactly surprised to hear the anger in Roger’ voice but it still stung. He just hoped he’d be able to cling onto his place as consultant by the end of this. 

Time to prove my worth I guess.

He dove into the fray, dragging the creatures off of Romanov, face twisting into disgust as he got to the bottom of the most fucked up cuddle pile ever, and saw that a few of the ones at the bottom were half Romanov copies, half metallic shit. He dragged the last of them off, firing high heat energy repulsor blasts at all of them and watching in morbid fascination as they burned orange, then green, and then just seemed to vanish. He turned back to face her.

“Romanov.”

“Thanks for the assist Iron Man.”

Her voice sounded the same as usual. Blank. That was… unexpected. He expected to hear the same kind of anger in Steve's voice reflected in hers. And he’d heard her angry. This wasn't it, he was pretty sure. She put a hand on the shoulder of the armour, in a move that could’ve almost been seen as comforting.

What the fuck was happening.

Oh god. What if this was pity. What if she knew. She can't know, she cant that's not- no one can know he needs no one to know-

“Stark?”

That wasn't even sharp, it was questioning. Not soft per say but-

God he was overthinking this. Pull yourself together, Stark men are made of iron. Get your head in the game.

At least the morphine was still very much in his system.

“C’mon Romanov, we haven't got time to stand around like this all day.”

He really hoped he was portraying the confidence well enough, despite the slight wobble. He was still in a lot of pain it was so hard to pull off The Tony Fucking Stark like this. From the way that her eyes narrowed he hadn't quite gotten away with it, but she let it slide, pointing out a new group of the bastards by a Costa that appeared to have civilians inside.

“Lets go,” she said, already on her way.

--0--

Oomph 

One of the big goos landed a hit directly on his stomach, he automatically doubled over, repulsors firing him backwards even faster than the hit.

Tony’s body went flying through the air, smashing through a cement pillar before hitting a brick wall, dropping to the ground like a stone.

His head ricocheted off the back of the helmet, his ears ringing and his eyes rolling around, double vision of the flickering Hud floating in front of him. He scrunched his eyes shut and groaned, head pounding, willing himself not to be sick because there was no way he’d get the suit open in time.

Gradually the ringing quieted, and he could hear Roger’s voice filtering through the comms.

“Iron man! Iron man, status report!”

Odd, he sounded almost concerned. 

Tony listened to him yelling his name in increasingly frantic tones for at least a minute before it properly registered that he was supposed to respond.

“All good here Cap no need to get your panties in a twist.”

It was rasped out, his throat felt dryer than the fucking Sahara, but the mic in the suit was damaged so hopefully he’d be staticky enough that it wasn't questionable.

“Alright Iron Man, Banner has calculated the energy signature of the wormhole, but we could use your help on making a device to actually close it.”

he wants you in the wormhole theyre going to send you into the wormhole again its the wormhole again again again

Tony breathed a deep breath out through his teeth, wincing. Yeah the morphine was definitely wearing off. He could feel the tell tale chest pain returning, slowly but with a vengeance. And now they wanted him to do complex quantum physics.

fuck me

Time to get moving while the pain was still slightly dulled.

“J, mute comms mic.”

No answer, but there was an audible click so it was safe to assume he was muted now. Alright. 

He began pulling himself out of the rubble, allowing himself to make whatever noise he wanted because the exhaustion far outweighed his embarrassment at the little whimpers dragged out from his throat by now. So he whimpered and groaned and sobbed his way out of the cement, locking the armour legs when he was finally out and allowing himself to collapse, supine against the sweat soaked metal, tears leaking tracks down his cheeks, and something hot and sticky making a slow descent down the back of his head.

“Uhhh guys, about that device…”

A hesitant voice came through the speakers.

Bruce.

“Yes Banner??”

“It's shut.”

Tony blinked. That… didn't seem right.

“Sorry, what??” 

Cap sounded just as confused as Tony felt, so clearly they were in agreement for once.

“Its gone, I mean, I don't think this is the best outcome by any means, but there's no energy signature, no radiation, no temperature discrepancies, all the alien life forms are dead…. I don't actually know what else we can do here, it's like it was never here.”

“Ok, well… I guess back to SHIELD for debrief??”

Barton. He sounded tired, no doubt he’d be sent off to another room to nap while they were debriefing, standard procedure for littles in the field, Coulson and/or Romanoff would catch him up later. Tony would just have to sit through it, in the suit and trying his best not to cry. Fuck.

“Agreed Barton, Fury’s probably sending an evac anyway.”

“You can call me Clint again now Cap, y'know, battles over.”

Amused, even through the clear exhaustion (nothing tires a person out, let alone a little, like 5 straight hours of battle). Tony tried to push away the slight sting that Barton was definitely still Barton to him, probably would never be Clint to him after today's late arrival.

He turned, hearing before he saw the typical black nondescript black shield van, and began wearily picking his feet up in the heavy, practically dead armour. He was gonna have to do some serious repairs when they got back to the tower.

Brooklyn, 2012, Steve's POV

Steve watched, mouth actually opening slightly in horror as he watched the massive goo move an arm aimed straight for Widow's face, her bites at the ready but she was clearly out sized here. Just as it looked like the goo was going to make contact though, a red and gold blur flew in from behind her, turning at the last possible moment, taking the hit directly in the stomach and flying backwards, crashing through a building and landing unmoving in a heap of rubble.

Steve's heart jumped into his mouth. Sure he and Stark weren't on uncertain terms at best at the moment, but he still considered the guy a teammate, was even growing to like him, and any thought against that had been dispelled over the past 5 hours, watching Stark get battered this way and that, frequently jumping in to help other teammates. And looking at the red and gold parts barely visible from under all the cement he had to remind himself to breathe because that was a bad fall.

“Iron man. Iron man. Please respond.”

Nothing. 

Widow and Hawkeye had turned to watch as well.

Steve spoke again, feeling his tone get slightly more frantic but being completely unable to stop it.

“Iron man! Status report!”

His heart was pounding. Why the hell had stark done that, sure, Widow was in a tight spot but she was prepared, she had her bites, she probably would've ended up slightly injured, sprained wrist, a few cuts, twisted ankle, something minor . And then Stark had gone sweeping in, completely unprepared for the hit, taking the full force of it. The selflessness of it stunned Steve, and he didn't really understand why. Had Stark not done the exact same thing in New York? Why did he forget this side of Stark so easily? 

There's selflessness and then there's self destruction.

A voice whispered in his head. 

Sure Widow was in danger, but it was a battlefield, that's what happens, and it was looking more and more like he was going to have to call a medevac for Stark.

“Iron man!”

He tried one last time, beginning to step closer towards the pile along with Widow and Hawkeye.

C’mon

He thought,

C'mon  Stark get up. Please. I'll even take some snarky remark or pop culture reference. Just get up.

For a second he thought he saw the rubble shifting, but no response. He geared into action.

“Ok Widow we need to contact SHIELD, Thor we need you down here now, help us shift the-”

“All go- d here c- cap no ne to get yo- ur pantiesss in t-twist.”

The audio was broken enough to nearly be indistinguishable, and Stark's voice was distorted, sounding warped and broken and cracking. But it was there. 

Steve let out a sigh of relief.

“Alright Iron Man.” 

He actually doubted that the man had survived a fall like that, even in a metal suit, completely unscathed, but a couple bruises never killed anyone, and Stark was a grown man, and known to dodge whatever meetings possible, if he had any proper injuries that needed tending to Steve had no doubt he'd be loudly complaining about how he couldn't possibly do a debrief.

He pushed on. 

“Banner has calculated the energy signature of the wormhole, but we could use your help on making a device to actually close it.”

No response. A crackle over the comms, a sigh maybe???

“JA- IS mu - co m-”

Steve frowned. That was not helpful to teams communication on the field, but he could see Stark slowly easing himself out of the rubble, probably to find Banner and brainstorm science stuff, so he let it slide without remark.

A hesitant, stuttering voice cut through the comms, knocking him out of his thoughts.

“Uhhh guys, about that device…”

“Yes Banner??”

“It's shut.”

Steve tilted his head to the side slightly, wondering if he’d somehow misheard.

“Sorry, what??” 

“It's gone, I mean, I don't think this is the best outcome by any means, but there's no energy signature, no radiation, no temperature discrepancies , all the alien life forms are dead…. I don't actually know what else we can do here, it's like the wormhole was never here.”

Steve frowned, he didn't like that. But banner had a point, if there was nothing left to do there wasn't much point in hanging around, it wasn't even like they could help with clean up, the goos when killed had turned into ash, most of which was blown away. And as passionate as he was about the avengers helping clean up the mess after battles he wasn't about to get them all dustpans and brushes to sweep away the remaining dust.

“Ok, well… I guess back to SHIELD for debrief??”

Clint. He sounded tired, Steves worried his lip slightly in concern. 5 hours was a long time, especially for a little, their bodies werent designed to endure stress like the other classifications were. When they got back to SHIELD he’d probably put a word in to get him sent somewhere to rest.

“Agreed Barton, Fury’s probably sending an evac anyway.”

“You can call me Clint again now Cap, y'know, battles over.”

He smiled sheepishly, trying to pull himself out of battle mode. He was just happy that not only was he on first name terms, Clint actually preferred him to use first names.

Chapter Text

SHIELD van, Brooklyn, 2012, Bruce’s POV

Bruce shuffled around on his seat, twisting the sleeves of the oversized sweater that's been given to him by some nameless SHIELD agent around his wrists and back again, fighting the urge to chew on his bottom lip. He glanced up again at the motionless armour, as though something might have changed in the 20 seconds he looked away, just to (shocker) reveal it looked exactly the same. Parts of the metal were knocked in, the plates concave in a way that looked painful, and he thought he’d seen a flicker run across the arc reactor a few moments ago.

He started bouncing his leg only to immediately stop, remembering there were other people than just him and an all too silent Tony Stark in the van, Steve was next to him and probably wouldn't appreciate the bench shaking, he didn't want to disturb anyone.

So he twisted his hands around each other and the fabric more animatedly, pushing away the urge to hum, bounce or rock. He could do that. He could, it was just that…

He was worried about Tony. Frankly he would’ve been worried about Tony anyway with the hit he took, he was an anxious person by nature and a doctor by choice, he’d always been a bit of a mother hen. But even aside from the fall he’d watched Tony take, which had nearly caused an involuntary code green, something about him was off. Something was wrong.

He was late, JARVIS seemed to be partially disabled, “indisposed”, but most concerningly, how quiet Tony had been the whole fight. Tony was many things, but reserved wasn't one of them. He couldn't help thinking back to a conversation he’d briefly overheard between Colonel Rhodes and him. Tony had been whining all week about having a sore ankle, limping dramatically and begging Bruce to get his coffee for him because he was “injured Bruce!! Really are you going to make me struggle all that way??”. That same week Rhodes had turned up, 1 day of leave granted to go see Tony. They'd been walking through the common floor where Bruce was quietly drinking his tea, he doubted they'd even noticed him really, curled up in a corner as he was, and he’d heard Tony yet again complaining about the sore ankle, begging Rhodes to carry him, making puppy eyes, the whole lot, and Rhodes had just laughed. 

“Tones, I know it doesn't hurt that bad because you’re still talking buddy, its when you go quiet, that's when I know shits gone wrong you fucking chatterbox,” it was said with a smile, and even Tony was grinning despite the faux offence as he hit his arm.

“Dick.”

Tony hadn’t contradicted him though, and even if he was planning to it was quickly cut off by the loud squawk he’d made when he was scooped up bridal style by the Colonel, who was clearly bored of the whining, and they’d continued onwards, Tony yelling at Rhodes to let him down even as he wiggled closer.

Bruce had just had a quiet smile to himself about it at the time, but now the phrase struck him as… disconcerting. “It's when you're quiet that I know something’s really wrong.” Bruce hadn’t paid it any mind back then, he’d never seen Tony quiet really, the idea was almost laughable. Tony had literally died and had popped up with a quip and request for shawarma. And yet there was the armour, sat across from him, completely still, completely silent. You could almost forget there was a person in there.

Bruce glanced up again at the armour, incapable of stopping in his concern. He thought back to the start of the battle, Tony had arrived late, after being “indisposed”, he wasn't putting on the suit and JARVIS had been semi disabled. Maybe it wasn't Tony in the suit?? Tony had been attacked in the tower, he was fighting them off, JARVIS was shut down resulting in the automated response?? It would make sense as to why Tony hadn't pulled down the faceplate by now, normally it was the first thing he did, saying it messed up his hair.

But… it didn't quite click. JARVIS had specifically used “indisposed”, everything JARVIS said was carefully picked out and worded. There would be protocols, even in the case of a partial shut down, for JARVIS to alert people that Tony was in danger, and if JARVIS was still up in any way it was highly unlikely any intruders would've made it in in the first place, let alone made it up to Tony's floor without being “neutralised”. Which was the nice word for what JARVIS could do to what he deemed a threat. Bruce shivered slightly. Every day he was thankful that he and JARVIS were.. Amicable, friendly, whatever you wanna call it. He wasn't very good at labelling things. 

Aside from that, he’d checked JARVIS’ code, and while most of it was still blocked off on his StarkPad, he couldn't see any evidence that JARVIS had been tampered with at all. All the signs pointed towards this being based on an order from Tony himself.

So there went theory number one.

Theory two was that Steve and Clint could be right??? But that just didn't seem plausible at all. It was easy to forget the “philanthropist” in “genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist”, he actually thought that Tony probably left it till the end deliberately, deeming it not as important as his other 'defining features', but you couldn't counter the fact that he had a selfless streak a half mile wide. The money could be explained away, Tony had enough of it for the various donations to not really make a dent on his account (until you began to add it all up), but absolutely no one would have blamed him if he had come back from Afghanistan, shut down his weapons department and became a hermit. It probably would’ve been more understandable even. Instead he decided to take no time off after what was definitely a deeply traumatic experience and just jumped straight into defending literally the entire world. And that wasn't even mentioning the New York missile-wormhole situation. So no, as hard as Tony tried to portray himself as a selfish narcissistic asshole Bruce wasn’t buying it. He knew for a fact that one part of that wasn't true, and was highly suspect of the other two. Aside from all this, yes Tony had been late, which definitely wasn't good but he’d also been out of breath when he arrived, as if he’d been rushing or…

Well that was actually theory number 3.

Bruce hadn't actually seen Tony since what he'd mentally dubbed The Incident a few days ago, Tony had been holed up in the lab for the majority of the time, and Bruce’s usual access code had been blocked. It was understandable, if vaguely upsetting, Bruce had seen something he wasn't supposed to see, that Tony quite clearly deemed as weakness and that Wasn't Acceptable in his mind. He was hiding, and Bruce was ok with that, he could quite happily, or not so happily, worry from afar. If it wasn’t for the fact that something about the encounter just reeked of wrong , even aside from the glaringly obvious PTSD. It was obviously quite a shock to be called down by JARVIS to find Tony Stark, sobbing and thrashing under a blanket, but Tony was his friend, and looking back he was surprised he hadn't noticed the signs sooner. Aside from the fact that it was pretty clear that Tony hadn't had the best childhood just from the absolute refusal to acknowledge it. In Tony's file (Electronic. Bruce was beginning to doubt SHIELD’s intelligence) under family everything was erased, not even a joke in its place. That, he was beginning to realise, was significant. There were jokes about everything with Tony, but he never said anything meaningful about himself amongst it all. Bruce would go as far as to call them close friends, and yet he couldn't say he knew anything about Tony that couldn't be found in one or two google searches. There were jokes about everything, but not about his family, not about the arc reactor, not about the touch thing, not about Afghanistan. And it was those gaps that worried Bruce.

Because he shouldn't have been called down to Tony's lab by JARVIS because the man stopped breathing, he should've been called down before, or even better, Tony should have a therapist he was talking all this through with in the first place. 

From what he had seen he was confident in saying no such person existed for Tony. 

And there was what he said.

“Yes, I do.” 

It wasn't said with the stubbornness that Bruce expected to hear considering the conversation topic. It was downright depressing. Defeated. He sounded tired . And that wasn't The Tony Stark. So Bruce couldn't help but wonder when Tony found the time to drop all that. If this was Tony with all the barriers stripped back, who was Bruce talking science with, who was the guy that fought with them, the grinning billionaire who always had a fast comment and a smirk at the ready. Bruce had thought, naively, that Tony was pretty simple to understand, there didn't seem like there was really a big difference to his relaxed self and his press persona. Clearly he was wrong. He’d just never seen Tony truly relaxed, truly comfortable to just let himself be for a bit.

So he was concerned about Tony anyway. But then he was “indisposed”.

That was what JARVIS had said to him before Tony really had just… stopped breathing, and JARVIS could invoke whatever protocol necessary based on medical need. And then Tony had turned up, breathing sharp and shaky, had been late despite his habit of charging head on into enemies with no support, hadn't warned them of that at all, had been visibly off his game the entire battle. 

The call was at 10am. Had possibly been asleep.

The dots were all there, and it wasn't exactly hard to connect them with a completely unresponsive suit of armour sat directly across from him. 

Unfortunately, he had information no one else did, so clearly no one else had connected the dots because to them there weren't any dots to connect. He could practically feel the frustration radiating off of Steve to his right, and Clint wasn't any better. Natasha was blank, as usual. He actually thought she might have picked up that something was weird here. But then again, he never knew anything for certain with Natasha. 

That meant he was going to have to intervene somehow. He sighed. He hated getting involved in complex social stuff like this, never seemed to be given the instruction manual everyone else had, stumbling around his points and words. But Tony clearly wasn't going to stand up for himself, and he knew that Steve would take Tony aside, yell at him, agitating him, Tony would cut back, never actually revealing why he was late, and they’d reflect off of each other until one stormed out in a rage, leaving the other. And aside from the fact that none of that was necessary and everything could be very neatly resolved if they just talked like adults, he knew that Tony would push away from everyone even further, Steve would mark Tony down as all of the stereotypes he’d accumulated being true, only to be reminded next battle at how Tony could be, and was in fact, a great team player. And then it would repeat.

Plus he liked tony. And the memory of him, tear stained and hunched over, whispering about what he had to do, how he had to feel… it only strengthened his resolve to stick up for his friend, the first person who truly didn't fear him.

Plus then maybe he could lie down and pass out like he desperately wanted to without being disrupted by the confusing bundle of thoughts crashing around in his head.

Chapter Text

"Now I'm haunted by all these holes found in my armour

If my heart beats any harder, I will lose it"

- don’t call me at all, by flatsound

Tony’s POV, somewhere in Brooklyn, in a SHIELD van

Tony sat, head lolling against the back of his helmet, rattling off the metal with every bump of the vehicle along the road. He was just taking a second. Or at least that was what he was trying to persuade himself. He needed this moment before he had to go face up to the debriefing, otherwise known as “what Tony’s done wrong this time club”.

No that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t. They needed to debrief because they needed to know how to decrease damage and he was just being dramatic. He knew he was being dramatic but-

God. the longer he sat there completely unmoving, the more appealing the idea of staying there forever was. Just closing his eyes and slipping into the darkness of sleep, peace and quiet, and he could just let the suit deal with everything, it would take him home, put him in bed, maybe make him something to eat, give him a cold towel or something to cool him down a bit…

His eyes widened slightly as he realised what he was actually imagining. He needed to get a handle on this headspace thing. He should probably say something, because there was no way in hell he could get away with pulling the helmet off. He couldn't quite tell what way he was facing, or the details of how he got to the van, but he did know he looked like death. If nothing else the sweat still trickling down his back despite the cooling system in the suit and van, and what he was now certain was blood running down his hairline was a pretty big clue. He didn't want to actually give Bruce a heart attack. But more importantly he didn't want to be kicked off the team and he was already pushing his luck on that front, no need to worsen it by bearing his vulnerabilities to the team. No one wants a teammate who cant handle a fucking cold. Aside from that, JARVIS had tried his absolute best but Tony was pretty sure he still smelled of piss and that would definitely be the final straw. Barton was a little, yes, but he wasn’t a baby and he had far more training than Tony, and had bonded with the team better. Plus there was the fact that Barton was practically the stereotype of the perfect little, energetic, happy, playful, happy to let other people (read: caregivers) help him out. Nothing like tony, in short.

Better than you, better than you, you’re useless always have been always will be.

Tony rasped, coughing again weakly without moving an inch, all the energy drained out of him. 

“Sir, I really must insist that you find medical assistance-”

“J, I said no , no contacting anyone- and I mean anyone about my condition. No one.”

“Alright sir.” 

JARVIS’ voice was practically dripping in disapproval.

Tony desperately wished he could rub at his temples to try and dispel some of the headache, the pounding had gradually increased over the last 4 or so hours and was quickly becoming the main contender for the arc reactor in terms of most pressing in his mind. He hated to give in, in any way, but the world had dissolved into pulsating black dimness with multi coloured spots floating like jellyfish, lazily travelling his peripheral. 

“J. morphine. Stick me.”

“Dosage sir??”

“I don't care, just make it stop a bit, please make it stop.” he whispered, clenching his eyes shut as they grew hot. He wasn't going to cry again. He wasn't. 

He was crying again.

He felt the needle enter his leg and relaxed pre-emptively at the idea of less pain. He could do this, he could. He straightened up, resolve hardening.

Bad idea, the morphine hadn’t actually kicked in yet. But he scrambled to get his legs underneath him properly rather than just leaning up against the armour, balancing, albeit wobbly, on his own terms. He shifted in the armour's rigid locked sitting position, wishing he could stretch the kinks out of his back and the aches out of his legs. But for now staying sat up and semi in control of his muscles could go a long way.

Yeah a long way to making you more exhausted for when you have to face Fury.

He looked out the small window to his left, recognising some of the surroundings even amongst the rubble that followed a battle and the pulsating spots that were still drifting across his eyeline, even though they were smaller. By his estimate they were only about 5 minutes out from SHIELD HQ. Thank fuck Brooklyn Bridge was still operational, open to SHIELD if no one else, what could have been an hour long journey was cut down to around 20 minutes. He swallowed harshly as they sped past the NYU emergency department, spotting the huddled groups of people waiting outside, collateral from the battle. He looked away again, waiting until they’d moved past. All traffic had been cleared off the roads so it shouldn’t be too much longer, he could already just about see the Empire State Building in the distance. He allowed his head to lean back slightly, resting it on the helmet. He began breathing slower and deeper as he felt the morphine sinking in and easing some of the pain around his lungs.

He was going to be expected to speak in the debrief though, and although the armour’s voice  modulator could hide how totally shit he sounded he was going to need to maintain the ability to speak or they were going to get suspicious. It’s hard to hide in a room of spies.

“JARVIS, bronchodilator and humidifier please.”

He took another long, deep breath, pushing down the urge to cough so that the medication would have a chance to soothe his tight, mangled airways slightly. He let the breath out, already feeling the difference in the air quality of the air. God he hated humidifiers. Why people were so desperate to breathe in moist air just for the fun of it he would never understand. Still. Lesser of two evils. 

One of the nameless shield agents stood up, tapping on the screen that separated the driver and the rest of them. The van began to slow down, pulling into and beginning to circle whatever car park-dungeon shield had lurking under the building. He stifled a laugh at the idea of Nick Fury fighting a SHIELD agent for a parking space.

He looked around at the rest of the team, something he’d been avoiding because even though he knew Banner couldn’t see him the prolonged eye contact he kept accidentally making was uncomfortable to say the least. He really hoped Banner hadn’t noticed anything, in fact he’d been hoping to avoid him for a couple more weeks after the incident , but apparently weird clone copy sparkly metallic alien things didn’t care about his wants and needs. He really didn’t like the way that Banner was scrutinising him though, was there something on the outside of the suit?? Blood that leaked through the seams or something??

He felt the blood pour out of his face. What if Bruce could smell him. He undoubtedly still smelled of piss, it clung onto his clothes and JARVIS, while extremely useful in most situations, didn't have the ability to clean him up, he just didn't keep the resources in the suit for that. And aside from the tell-tale smell of urine which would be ridiculously difficult to explain away if Banner had caught a whiff of it. He could have also smelt the airborne meds. An unenhanced person probably couldn’t, but he knew that some of the Hulk's enhanced abilities were passed over to Bruce, he could hear better, could pick out individual spices in meals. It wasn’t a huge jump to theorize that he could smell better than the average person. And with his medical background he would be able to recognise the sweet medicinal smell of artificially oxygenated air, might even be able to pick up on the slightly bitter taste and smell of… Albuterol?? JARVIS had probably given him Albuterol, he couldn’t really tell the difference between the different bronchodilators in all honesty. Bruce would be able to. 

He tried to take a deep breath around the anxiety, getting his heart rate up right now wouldn’t help anything. 

Even if he had noticed something, or was just still trying to push him on the emotions thing, hopefully Bruce would have enough common sense not to bring it up immediately before the debrief.

Even if Tony had doubts.

He swung his gaze round to look at the rest of the team, trying to push away the litany of thoughts surrounding Bruce for the moment. 

Rogers was…

Tony didn’t know what he was. He didn’t seem angry, more just tense. Possibly from the battle, maybe frustration, more likely that he wasn’t exactly sure what was going on. Tony couldn’t say he knew the captain that well at all really but it was pretty obvious the man had a control issue, and honestly if it had been himself trapped in an ice cube for the better part of a century and woken up to see everyone he knew gone…

Well yeah. He’d probably want to keep a pretty firm grip on everything that was happening after he woke up too. 

He was surprised at the lack of visible anger. Sure it was entirely possible Tony was reading the man completely wrong, but the vein in his forehead wasn't jumping like every other time he’d been mad at Tony, he wasn’t grinding his teeth, that always came before a yelling fit. 

He'd even side eyed Tony a couple times with something that looked neutral or even (if he dared to believe) softish. Concern or worry if he was being really kind to himself. Puzzled if he was being realistic.

Banner clearly hadn’t picked up on these different cues though judging by the way he kept eyeing Cap nervously. Tony let out a quiet huff of laughter. That man was a genius in so many areas, but even Tony was better at picking up on tones and facial cues than Bruce. And he had been reliably informed that he consistently missed basic cues that others didn't, so that was saying something. Tony’s people reading skills were refined to the cut throat nature of a boardroom; he could spot the smallest change in tone that meant enemy rather than investor. In casual settings?? Not so much. He was accustomed to distinguishing between varieties of anger, fake friendliness and malevolence, not every day emotions. The difference was where Tony had refined social skills that only worked in some settings Bruce just didn't seem able to pick up on cues full stop. 

But back to Rogers. This whole situation was confusing. He thought he would’ve already had to face a screaming match at how late he was. He actually thinks he would have preferred that to the silent treatment. The tension was putting him on edge, he just wanted to know whether this was the final straw, whether he was going to be able to keep his tentative position half on half off the team. 

He would much prefer for the yelling to come sooner than later, because he wasn’t stupid; he knew there would be yelling.

Barton was easier, he was clearly still pissed, despite the blatant exhaustion, and wasn't even attempting to hide it. Even while continually slipping to the side, rubbing his eyes and propping himself up again (5 hours of battle was a long time for a little, Tony didn’t blame him), he was still managing to level a pretty terrifying stare (if dampened slightly from the pure malice he'd faced at the start of the battle) in Tony's direction. It was oddly reassuring, for all it made his eyes hot and prickly; at least he knew where he was standing. 

Unlike Romanov. Who as per usual was looking entirely blank. He had gotten slightly better at reading the different genres of blank though, this was an expression she wore after all missions, he could recognise it as a mask, similar to his he supposed, she didn’t want to be Romanov in a battle, she wanted to be Black Widow. He could understand that, no judgement from him. It would be helpful to know where he was at with her though. The moment in the battle that could have been interpreted as concern. He didn’t like that. Even a hint of anything approaching concern with Romanov was vastly out of character, and the implications of it were unsettling. Romanov was a spy. A good spy, even if his personal report may have led him to believe otherwise. She was trained to recognise even the slightest behavioural pattern, the smallest tics and categorise them. He knew it was a bad idea to have her in the tower, he was good but there was only so much you can hide. He couldn’t add inches to his height, he couldn’t control some of his instinctive reactions, he wasn’t physically baseline/dom material. If she even had an idea that he wasn’t what he said he was…. He would be totally fucked. Bam. no more team, no more iron man. 

On the other hand, she could have picked up on the whole sick thing, he wasn't naïve enough to say that he was good at disguising that, he hadn't had nearly as much practice as he had with hiding his classification. And that was on top of the fact that she had been around him while he was sick before, had witnessed all his mannerisms during the palladium fiasco that he hadn't even attempted to hide because he was so absolutely certain he was going to die. She could have spotted some behavioural discrepancy that he didn't catch. 

That didn't soothe him though, because having Romanov find out just how bad he was right now would have had a very similar result, she was pushier than Banner, and had SHIELD at her fingertips, if she thought he needed medical attention she would make him get it. He wasn’t stupid, he was sure she was in some capacity monitoring his introduction to the battle field as Iron Man, and illness would interfere with that. She would definitely get him to some kind of medic.

that is if she doesn't just stick you with something

He thought bitterly. 

And the second he got to a medical professional they would take one look at him and medicate, take blood tests, samples. The blood tests would reveal the aura suppressant medication he’d been taking, which he had no explanation for, urine samples, throat cultures, lung swabs, they would all reveal the hormone make up of a little. Depending on how in depth the tests SHIELD runs are it could even reveal that he was on the lower end of the spectrum. 

Aside from all of that, being in an unfamiliar place doped up to the gills on fuck knows what would send him plummeting into his headspace, he was barely clinging on now, in the safety of his own suit with no one even looking at him. 

They’d work it out in 20 minutes, absolute max. News would reach Fury in another 5 minutes, probably hit the news outlets within an hour. And then he’d be ruined. No team, no company, no iron man, he’d spend his days drooling over some government assigned caretaker.

“Sir, please breathe deeper, your blood oxygen levels are dropping again and I can't administer any more medication without you being in danger of overdose.”

Tony sucked air through his nose quickly, not realising his breathing had stalled again.

Thor was easier, he thought as he pushed away the images of how close he was to his worst nightmare becoming his reality. Thor probably didn't even register that he was late, and if he was angry he expressed it quickly from what Tony had seen. No emotional politics there.

Just as he was wondering whether Thor's outspokenness was a personality trait or a difference between Earth and Asgardian culture, the van came to stop, jolting him forwards in his seat slightly. He hissed as his face made contact with the side of the helmet, the disorientation coming back with a passion as he tried to get his wayward eyeballs under control again.

“Your debrief has been arranged for 10 minutes from now in conference room 2, it was pushed back to give your team some time to prepare.”

Oooo 10 whole minutes how generous.

Tony thought, nearly rolling his eyes.

Because that will definitely be enough to compensate for a 5 hour battle.

Rogers shifting in his peripheral caught his eye, and he switched his gaze.

“Alright team, let’s head up towards the room, then we can find somewhere for 10 minutes, do some first aid if needed.”

Tony half expected him to add an “Avengers assemble” at the end. 

Bruce, Romanov and Barton were all on their feet already before it sank in that he should be too.

“JARVIS, unlock joints.”

“Of course Sir”

The joints unlocked with an audible hiss that he winced at, looking up. Yeah, Banner and Romanov had definitely caught that, Bruce had that crease in between his eyes that he got when he was trying to work out an especially complex equation in the lab, and Romanov’s eyes had narrowed. Great. 

He stood up, a choked off gasp leaving his mouth at the sudden influx of pain, he tried to move his arm out to grasp at the wall, his legs weakening under the shock of the onslaught. He breathed out quickly through his nose, sucking in another rattling quick gasp.

“J” he choked

“Aut-”

He could hear the high pitched wheeze in his lungs, he coughed.

“Autopilot.” he managed, dropping back down against the armour, trying to double over with the force of the coughs but restricted by the damp metal.

He struggled as the armour moved without him, coughing and coughing until it felt like he’d never stop.

As he finally ended up hacking mucus down himself (which… ew, gross) he looked up, heart sinking at the red specks decorating his Hud. Banner and Rogers were now shooting him weird looks, the delay in getting out of the van obviously hadn’t passed unnoticed.

He heaved out a sigh, weakly coughing as he inhaled again.

This was hard . 

He wanted nothing more than to just go home, have a warm blanket, maybe even allow himself to slip into that haze of pre-drop. Just for an hour's relaxation or something. It’d be hard to bring himself up but god it sounded amazing. He relaxed in the armour, closing his eyes and deciding the armour could do the work for now, losing himself in the daydream of what he’d do if he was someone else, with a different job, with a caregiver, and everyone knew his classification because it didn't matter .

The armor came to stop, and he opened his eyes to see a door labelled "Conference Room 2”, Rogers scanning the area and looking slightly lost.

Dream time over, time to face the real world.

He tried to ignore the salty water dripping off his chin and rolling down his neck.

Chapter Text

Scratch, kick, let gravity win like

Fuck this, let gravity win like

You could leave it all behind, even the Devil need time alone sometimes

You could let it all go, you could let it all go

It's Called: Freefall

It's Called: Freefall

- it's called freefall, by rainbow kitten surprise

SHIELD headquarters, 2012, Bruce's POV

Bruce hated this, he really did. This wasn't the kind of thing he was supposed to get involved in. but something was wrong with Tony, something had been wrong with Tony for a while, and it was coming out right here, right now, and he couldn't just let Steve and Clint go for him. He couldn't. It went against every deep rooted caring instinct he'd ever had.

Bruce hadn’t actually told many people, but when he’d been tested his results came back as caregiver leaning beta, not a true neutral. And the way Tony had staggered as he stood up had all those instincts rearing up inside him.

And now all Bruce could think about was the very real possibility of Steve yelling at Tony, or moving in some threatening way and Tony's clearly fragile mental state just... crumbling. Tony being tipped over the edge of a now all too apparent precipice. 

Ughhhhhh God.

He looked down at his hands, red from rubbing against each other, and back up at Steve.

He took a deep breath in. 

“Steve I gotta- talk??”

He had to fight back the urge to put his hand over his mouth, his tongue working faster than his thoughts. 

Steve was looking at him with one eyebrow cocked up in what looked to be pure confusion and Bruce couldn’t blame him. 

“I’m sure it can wait Banner, we’ve only got a few minutes-”

“No.”

Oh god oh god what was he doing. This time his hand did make an aborted motion towards his face, as if to take the words and shove them back down his own throat until he was choking on his own indecision again because that might actually be better than him disagreeing with Captain America to his face, and insisting that he can’t rest.

Tony better be fucking grateful, this is even worse than that thing he made me do with the synthetic skin and the furby.

“I mean no- I- Sorry I’m not very good- please??”

Before he could even think it through his hand had grasped Steve’s sleeve, stopping him mid step into the conference room. 

Bruce wanted to die. 

He could actually feel colour rising up his cheeks, and sadly not the green kind, but he stuck his ground anyway. This was actually important.

“Banner come on we need-”

“Just-” 

He snorted in frustration, tugging Steve by the sleeve (he was never gonna be able to look him in the eyes after this) just around the corner, hidden from Natasha and Clint's prying eyes. 

“Steve I know how this seems and I'm sorry but it’s Tony- you cant yell at him please because I know why you're angry but he’s, the thing is Tony's-”

“Banner. I know. I know he’s your frie-”

“No that’s not it really Steve you have t-”

Steve actually held up a hand to Bruce’s face, looking frustrated under the overbearing fatigue. 

“I’m not mad at him. I probably should be considering he still never should have been late, but he’s more than proved himself this battle. It’s all good.”

Steve went to walk away and back to the conference, but Bruce still had the sinking feeling, Tony wasn’t just late for no reason and he thought Steve probably did kinda need to know that, so he half heartedly reached out for Steve’s sleeve once again, but this time Steve blocked his arm.

“Banner.”

Icy.

And that was it for Bruce’s socially anxious brain, that was enough stress for one day, Steve pulled away while Bruce was still short circuiting about upsetting Captain America, and by the time he had recovered they were in the conference room with the others.

Chance gone.

But hey, he’d tried his best?? Steve wasn’t going to yell at Tony right now, he could always be brought up to speed later. Imminent danger avoided. 

Not ideal but you know what?? Good enough. Bruce just needed a glucose tab and a nap at this point, he was finished.

SHIELD headquarters, conference room 2, 2012, Tony’s POV

Tony dropped heavily onto the (thankfully reinforced) seat, it groaning under his added weight as the rest of the team settled around the conference team. 

Tonty watched dispassionately as Romanov began a frustrated conversation in ASL with a Barton who had stubbornly popped out his hearing aids and had steadfastly been ignoring the rapid hand movements in front of his face. 

Tony had never been all that great at sign, but he knew a bit, and had brushed up on his skills once he found out about Barton’s disability, so he could just about make out the gist of Romanov’s argument, which was that Barton needed to go lay down in accordance with SHIELD’s little protocols. From the one handed signs being thrown up periodically by Barton he could tell this was not going down well. Judging by how Barton was staring in his direction with dead eyes and a clenched jaw, he could take a pretty good guess as to one of the reasons he was so insistent he was staying, but to be honest he’d never seen Barton go down for his nap easily. He normally tapped out after 5 minutes of mind numbing debrief, when he realised nothing interesting was actually happening and taking a nap was a much better use of his time.

Tony chewed half heartedly at the inside of his cheek, exhaustion washing over the creeping pain and pulling his eyelids down despite the knowledge that he was hurtling toward a lecture if not expulsion from the Avengers Initiative altogether. What he’d give to be in Barton’s place. A nap literally sounded heavenly compared to sitting in a sweaty, bloody, pissed on suit listening to mad eye moody and spangles point out every one of his flaws while he injects himself with a gradually increasing amount of morphine to try and help himself stay conscious for hours.

He still had to work out an excuse for when he was inevitably asked to lift the suit helmet. 

His eyes widened as he saw Rogers strolling purposefully through the door, Banner trailing along behind him like a lost duckling. He felt his heart start beating faster, resuming its hop skip rhythm.

What the fuck had Bruce told him?

Tony took deep breaths.

On the bright side, at least if Rogers now knew his secret he might go easy on him, he thought hysterically. As if there could possibly be any bright side in this hellish situation. 

He half coughed, half laughed to himself, trying to pull himself out of the comfortable fog of sleep and denial he’d buried himself into as he saw Fury walk in.  

Fury walked over to the head of the table, bracing himself against it and leaning forwards as Coulson situated himself by his side, face neutral.

“Right, let’s get started.”

--0--

2 hours later and Tony was reaching his limit. Every time Coulson out forward a new tactical arrangement or adjustment Rogers would chime in, all earnest, with ideas on how to prove team strategy. And of course it was at this exact moment, when his morphine was running out and he had given up on even trying to listen when the dreaded question was put forward.

“Right, any inter team opinions on team performance??”

Tony straightened up in unison with Barton, who emerged from his place slumped half under the table, sleep rapidly dissolving out of his posture to give way to determined anger.

“Yeah, Stark.”

“Ok, Barton, enough with the dramatics, care to expand??” Fury said.

“Yeah, what the fuck?”

Rogers and Romanov sent him twin warning glances but Tony stared straight back at him, heart pounding but willing to take his punishment. He had been late, he had endangered people, he should have done better. He deserved this. So he squared his shoulders and took a deep breath.

“Going to expand any further tweetie bird or is that all I'm getting?” 

Right move, wrong move. 

It had riled Barton up, which was what he wanted, the angrier he was the faster this was over with, no need for pleasantries, Barton could feel vindicated to just let loose. On the other hand Tony had to admit to himself he wasn’t stable enough to face the vitriol coming while maintaining his dom leaning asshole persona. 

“Yeah, where the fuck were you. What did you spend too long with someone last night? Decide that you weren’t in the mood for playing superhero today? Or did you just realise you aren’t actually Avenger material and that was enough for you to throw a fit and refuse to join us. You realise people died while we were waiting for you?”

A shocked round of “Clint!!”’s went round the room, but Tony just stayed motionless, looking at Barton who had risen out of his seat, seemingly only held back from walking over to Tony by Coulson’s firm warning hand on his shoulder.

Tony looked down, worrying at the side of his lip, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. He took a deep breath as silently as possible.

“Well, it's always good to have people’s opinions out in the open.” He winced at the slight tremor audible even through the mangled comm system.

“Stark we don’t-” Steve started, cutting himself off.

Tony squeezed his eyes shut hard, not allowing himself to feel disappointment. What, was he expecting Captain America to come to his rescue to save his poor little hurt feelings?? For him to want Tony?? He wasn't 6 anymore, he’d gotten over that rejection a long time ago.

It still hurts.

“Ok well, that seems to be enough don’t’ya think? Good, well, I’m off, clean up and… other things to be done of course.” He hoped his voice only sounded watery to him. Hoped it would only be able to be picked up on if you knew he was crying. Thank god for the anonymity of the helmet.

“What, so now I've called you out, you want to leave?? God you just can’t put any effort in can you?”

This was seemingly the final straw for Coulson, who uttered one firm “Clint.” and began guiding him towards the door by the shoulder. Unfortunately it was also the final straw for Tony and Rogers as well.

Roger’s forehead furrowed, “Stark obviously we need to talk about what Clint said, you can’t just leave in the middle of the meeting.” frustration was clear in his voice, he was acting like Tony was an unruly child that was running away because someone called him a name.

And that was it, Tony tipped over the edge of sadness into anger. They had no idea what he did to stay on this team. And how dare Rogers speak to him like a child. He was an adult , had put a lot of effort into earning that label. How could they. He gave his everything for the Avengers, was practically killing himself bending over backwards to make this work. 

He stood up, anger overriding the influx of new pain at the action. 

“What do you want me to say Cap?? Oh yeah, I chose to be late, I just relish the idea of civilians dying when I could stop it.”

Rogers' eyes hardened then, uncannily alike to their initial meeting on the helicarrier.

“We don't joke about civilian casualties, Stark. And what the hell do you expect people to think when you rock up 20 minutes late with no explanation Stark?? We never see you, and now you cant even be bothered to respond to a call?? It’s irresponsible. It’s not how an Avenger should act.”

Barton, on the other side of the room, had thrown off Coulson’s hand, pushing over to where Tony and Rogers were getting closer and closer. He walked up to the armour, getting in Tony’s face, Tony could see Fury holding Coulson back with a few whispered words as they watched on from the sidelines, concern clear in the lines of Coulson's face.

“Yeah Stark, you wanna call yourself a hero, an Avenger?? Maybe you should actually put the work in. You can’t just quit every time this isn’t fun for you.”

“Yeah, well maybe that would be the case if I was an Avenger, but hello, consultant here.” Tony bit back, resentment, hurt and exhaustion catching up with him as pointed at himself sharply.

Through the red haze of anger he caught Rogers pulling back as if shocked, face furrowing in confusion, but his attention was quickly pulled back to Barton who was stepping back from the armour, laughing cynically.

“Oh, pulling the sympathy card, are we now Stark? God, what level are you willing to stoop to. Poor little me, I didn’t get a gilded invitation to join the Avengers.”

Coulson finally pulled away from Fury at that, grabbing Barton by the elbow and trying to pull him away, whispering frantically in his ear.

Not fast enough to stop Barton from landing the finishing blow though, his eyes full of exhaustion and malice as he spat “If you were any kind of man or Avenger you’d take the suit off and talk to me face to face, you coward.”

Coulson manhandled Barton away as Romanov drew in a hiss through her teeth, even Fury looking slightly put off by the anger in the statement. 

Tony stopped breathing, rage filling him.

Stark men are made of iron, take the suit off and what are, never be good enough without me boy, what are you tony, a coward, you gonna fight or just sit there, oh look he wet himself like a baby, not so much of a man now are you, the great tony stark-

“JARVIS, unlock suit.”

“Sir I don’t think-”

“Now.”

The suit unlocked and he half stepped, half fell out, weak legs nearly buckling under his weight.

He laughed, frantic and feverish, spun in a circle to face Barton, being dragged off by Coulson.

“What, is this what you want, so big of a difference?”

He was met with Barton’s eyes, losing their fire, as he stared back, seemingly frozen.

“What, just gonna let your caregiver lead you off?? Got nothing to say now do you??”

Tony glanced around the room, flitting from eyes to eyes, Romanov’s widened, Fury’s still infuriatingly passive. 

He felt a firm hand on his shoulder, spinning him round again, and he stumbled, nearly losing his balance at the movement.

“Stark, I understand Barton shouldn’t have said… anything, but I will not tolerate discrimination.”

Roger’s face held so much disappointment and anger, and Tony breathed out heavily, righteous rage dissolving into hurt again, horror filling him as he felt his chest rise and fall rapidly, a sickly tension rising through his chest and throat. 

He stared Rogers in the eyes, panting, some part of him recognising that this was it, he was finished. 

He swayed back and forth on his feet, head hazy and vision blurred, but making sure he maintained eye contact with Rogers. 

“And what about me?” He laughed out, defeated, throwing his arms out.

“Pretty sure a biased report would count as discrimination wouldn’t it.” He laughed again, manically, still staring Rogers dead in the eye as he stared back, something like worry marring his face,

He realised hot tears were gathering at his eyes and forced them wider, determined not to let them fall, not like this. He leaned further into Rogers’ space, the tension thick and crackling in the air, the room fading away until all that existed was him, Rogers and this massive ball of pain in between them. 

“Well Captain?? This is me out of the armour, never an Avenger, but I did everything . Why is nothing I do ever good enough?!” 

Part of him was panicking at the raw emotion pouring out of him unfettered, at how melodramatic he sounded.

Most of him didn’t care. He was done now, he was shaky and sweaty and hurting and so very very finished. 

His voice broke, his face crumpling as the first few tears slipped down his face, hot and fast and entirely unstoppable. He still stared at Rogers, who made an aborted movement with his arm, eyes full of fuck knows what emotion as he reached out as if to touch him.

Tony clenched his jaw, clenching his jaw, chest hitching on sobs and his heart beating staccato.

“Why does nothing I do. Ever. MATTER!!”

He yelled, posture crumbling forwards as his knees finally gave in, and he had to brace himself on the table. He buried his face into his hands, a fresh wave of sobs breaking out completely regardless of his current surroundings. 

Suddenly he felt two hands on his arms, holding him upright, and just like that Tony’s final thread of composure was pulled out from underneath him as he looked into Rogers’ eyes. 

“I wan’ m’paci.” He whispered, knees giving in totally. Rogers’ dipped slightly with the unexpected weight, face full of shock and alarm, as a second pair of hands stabilised him from behind. 

The sudden stop jolted the arc, and Tony tipped his head back and wailed, trying to fight his way free of the hands, head entirely unsupported as he still screamed, unable to stop between heaving sobs. He twisted to the side, jarring his ribs, and the screams went silent as his brain struggled to process the sheer amount of pain invading his senses. He felt his bladder give out, warmth spreading down his legs and gathering around his socks as he tried to take in hitched shallow breaths. Black started fading in from the sides of his vision and he started shaking so hard some part of him wondered whether it was possible to shake apart. The tension finally snapped, and the noise that was ripped out of his throat was deafening, shrill and seemingly never ending. He could feel the back of his throat being ripped up as he drew in wheezing breaths around wails. The lack of oxygen weakened him and he quieted down, heaving sobs as he collapsed forward into Rogers chest. He felt his eyes rolling backwards and his hands growing tingly as he tried to clench them and failed. He leant back into the second pair of hands, desperately forcing out the words as his heartbeat pounded against his ribcage too fast, too hard, the pain swallowing his consciousness whole. 

“I dun’....” wheeze “I dun feel, feel g- good…..” he trailed off head lolling backwards into his wall of hands as he felt his body give in and the shakes ramp up as he tipped sidewise, last thing he registered being the painful impact of linoleum on ribs.

Chapter Text

Wipe away your tear stains
Thought you said you didn't feel pain

Well this is torturous
Electricity between both of us
And this is dangerous

- landfill, by daughter

SHIELD HQ, Steve’s POV

Steve sighed as Banner’s hand landed on his arm.

Later he would look back at this moment with no small amount of guilt, pinpointing it as the first choice he made that pushed everything to it's somewhat inevitable, awful conclusion. However, despite all the miracles of the serum, the ability to see the future was not included in the package, so at that moment all Steve felt was mild irritation.

He stared down at the hand. Banner was bright red and looked almost to be in physical pain to be demanding this, and that was the only reason he hadn’t pulled away. It wouldn’t exactly have been hard. Hulk might bring a decent challenge to the table, but Banner was basically an unenhanced human, if Steve really wanted it would be nothing to swat him off like a fly. 

And god, didn’t it fill him with shame just to admit to himself that he’d considered it. He was just so tired . 

But he was the leader, and Banner never asked for anything, so for him to be this insistent despite looking like he wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere and die… well. Steve had to admit he was intrigued and, more importantly, concerned.

That concern and interest rapidly dissolved when they rounded the corner and Banner began rambling about Stark and all the reasons he didn’t deserve to be reprimanded. Steve had to forcefully restrain himself from sighing. 

He understood the desire to protect your friends, even if they were (even if only slightly in this case) in the wrong. He wasn’t planning on doing anything of the sort to Stark though, so hopefully this would be an easy fix. 

““Banner. I know. I know he’s your frie-”

“No that’s not it really Steve you have t-”

What kind of leader did Banner think he was?? He seemed genuinely distressed about what Steve was going to do to Stark the second they got into the room. Stark had just more than proven himself in a 5 hour battle, he wasn’t enough of a dick to spend the next hour yelling at him. Sure, they desperately needed to talk, but that was to (unfortunately) be a complicated discussion. Steve just wanted to know what the hell was going on between them, and yes, let Stark know that he could never pull the late stunt again. But despite his reservations about the man personally, Steve did hold a high respect for him on the battlefield. He was unendingly selfless, skilled in aerial support, and shockingly adept at working around the other team members. The only real thing besides punctuality Steve could possibly fault him on was the unnecessary risks he took. 

He could understand why Natasha wrote what she did on the report, could see how easy it would be to completely separate selfish Tony Stark from selfless Iron Man. However he did think Natasha had erred. No matter how easy it was to forget, Iron Man did not magically transform into a caricature of evil narcissism in the shape of Stark the second he stepped off the battlefield. They were, in fact, the same person. There was a reason Stark acted so differently in his different ‘states’, for lack of a better term. 

And it was possible to see sometimes. Iron Man’s unending self sacrificial acts, Stark's confidence that he was going to be kicked off the team. 

They weren’t entirely separate entities. 

So no, Iron Man had done extraordinarily well in the battle, he was not going to fall into the trap of separating them in his mind and berate the man piloting. Right now he really, really just wanted to take his SHIELD allotted 10 minutes before diving into strategy.

He put a hand up to try and stop Banner’s tirade.

“I’m not mad at him. I probably should be considering he still never should have been late, but he’s more than proved himself this battle, and I’m not. It’s all good.”

Steve turned to walk away, discussion resolved in his world. That was, until he felt a hand land on his sleeve again.

This time Steve couldn’t help it. The exhaustion fueled irritation got the better of him and he snapped back. He winced slightly at the look of almost comical shock horror written all over Banner’s face, but he really needed to get back into the room, so he pushed down the guilt and strode into the room, praying Banner would just follow his lead.

He frowned when he spotted Clint still in the room, making questioning eye contact with Natasha, but she just shook her head, frustration clear on her features. Steve didn’t really know any sign, but he didn't have to to know that the finger Clint was holding up at Natasha meant the conversation wasnt going well. He made the decision to stay out of it. If Clint had taken his hearing aids out and was unwilling to listen, Steve had more chance of experiencing a cold day in hell than getting Clint to understand him, let alone actually listen to what he was saying. Couslon would be here soon, hopefully he’d have more luck. 

He sank into his chair at the head of the conference table, breathing out in relief at the moment of respite. Despite what many people thought, he wasn’t invincible and 5 non stop hours of combat combined with a 8 hour food deficit had worn him down slightly, his metabolism was not happy at the lack of energy intake considering all the energy output. He pulled his head forward from the tipped back position it had ended up in at the sound of the door opening. He winced slightly at the virulent glare being levelled at Stark from Clint. He probably should have dealt with that before Fury arrived. Oh well, he and Coulson were here now, hopefully Coulson’s presence in particular would persuade Clint to go to the nursery. 

—-

Steve had been suggesting ways of improving the team for a significant time before the question was posed. He felt… exhausted was probably the best word, but also sated, satisfied. If he couldn’t punch a bag after a fight to get rid of the lingering thoughts of casualties and collateral damage or whatever fancy metaphor SHIELD had decided to use to avoid confronting the issue on the day, he’d take talking about improvements to prevent it happening again as a close second. There was something about knowing next time he could help more people that just felt so healing. Like salve to a burn. So when he had finally reached the end of his ideas for improvements on team performance he was leaning back into the chair slightly, feeling pleasantly tired, comforted in the knowledge that the energy had gone towards good causes. 

He was looking forward to collapsing onto his bed and waking up 8 hours later in the exact same position. He had entirely forgotten that once the suggestion section ended the next part of debrief was focused around inter team dynamics.

He heard Fury pose the question, and was immediately sat ramrod straight. His eyes shot to Barton, who had also instantly straightened up from his half asleep position under the table. Steve had really, really hoped Clint would be asleep in the SHIELD nursery rooms before they reached this point. He tried to make eye contact with him, begging him silently to not do what he knew Clint was thinking of doing.

Clint didn’t even look his way, his eyes laser focused on Stark. 

“Yeah. Stark.”

Steve winced. There was no possible way of this ending well. 

“Ok, Barton, enough with the dramatics, care to expand??” Fury responded dryly. 

“Yeah, what the fuck?”

Steve caught Clint’s eye, trying to tell him to back off. The man stared back uncaring, he looked slightly manic, eyes wide and bright with exhaustion and frustration. Steve had a sinking feeling that this was Clint’s version of a temper tantrum. 

“Going to expand any further tweety bird or is that all I'm getting?” 

Steve clenched his eyes shut for a second, breathing out sharply through his nose. Could Stark not see what was going on here?? Sure he wasn’t a caregiver, but anyone with two brain cells to rub together knew that riling up a slipping, over tired little was the best way to cause a full scale meltdown, kicking fists and all. And Clint was far better than other littles at gripping stubbornly onto his adult headspace so the meltdown had much higher potential to cause actual damage, whether it be emotional or physical was irrelevant. 

He felt for Stark, he did, it was a pretty shit position he’d been put in. But sometimes you just had to let littles vent frustration, and then they’d break down into headspace with exhaustion and tears. God knows he’d seen it enough in the war. Sure, littles weren't supposed to enlist, but that hadn’t stopped all of them. Young, wide-eyed and desperate to help their country, Steve had spent more than a few hours being screamed at, blamed and punched before catching a sobbing, limp baby. They needed someone to blame everything on, something to hit that they knew they weren’t going to kill before they could give in and recognise that this wasn’t anyone’s fault, before they could accept that sometimes death is just senseless. Three comrades Steve had held and comforted, 2 of them more than once. And the common phrase that spilled out of their mouths amongst sobs, every time, was “it’s not fair”. And however bad it felt to recognise, they were never talking about the casualties. They were talking about themselves. About how unfair it was that they had seen what they’d seen, about how tired they were, about how much they wanted someone strong there with them. 

This was Clint’s exhaustion point. He’d seen people die today, hadn’t rested, was overdue pain medication, and, as confided in by Coulson, hadn’t dropped in over 2 weeks. He needed his moment to scream and yell about how unfair this was, he needed someone to pinpoint the blame on before he could crumble and heal. 

Steve’s gaze dug holes into the armour, unable to see Stark’s eyes but hoping he had seen, desperately hoping he could convey what was happening here, that Stark would recognise this, would shoulder the blame for 5 minutes so Clint didn’t have to, because the weight of it was clearly crushing him. 

Unfortunately, he’d already spoken, already challenged Clint, who was practically begging for a challenge. Steve looked back towards Clint, who had a tight, mean smile spreading across his face.

“Yeah, where the fuck were you. What did you spend too long with someone last night? Decide that you weren’t in the mood for playing superhero today? Or did you just realise you aren’t actually Avenger material and that was enough for you to throw a fit and refuse to join us. You realise people died while we were waiting for you?”

“Clint!” The word shot out of Steve’s mouth without him even realising, the shock of the words leaving his mouth hanging open. 

Clint  looked just about ready to jump the table and start smacking fists against the armour, Coulson’s hand pulling him back seemingly being the only deterrent. Steve took a deep breath against the reprimand crawling up his throat, trying to remember that Clint was the hurting little in this situation, that Stark was the dom, that Stark would be the lesser of the two casualties in this.

“Well, it's always good to have people’s opinions out in the open.”

Steve’s head snapped back to the armour, wincing at the slight tremor in his voice even as relief filled him. Stark had realised at least in some capacity that biting back at Clint was not the way to play this. But then there was the tremor, Stark’s obvious guilt around civilian deaths, clear in his speech about shutting down his weapon building department. Before Steve could even think it through he was talking.

“Tony we don’t-”

He snapped his jaw shut, eyes flying over to where Clint was. He hadn’t thought. He scanned Clint’s face for any sign that he’d taken that as an insult, praying to a God he wasn’t even sure he believed in anymore that he wouldn’t take it as him being wrong, that he wouldn’t push his point any further.

“Ok well, that seems to be enough don’t’ya think? Good, well, I’m off, clean up and… other things to be done of course.”

Stark sounded absolutely spent, and Steve tried desperately to steel himself. Stark may be tired or guilty, or whatever was making him sound so… lost. But Clint would apologise later. He knew that. Once this was all over Clint would recognise what he had said, and how that had affected others, and if Clint couldn’t swallow his pride long enough to apologise of his own volition Coulson would prod and poke until he did. 

“What, so now I've called you out, you want to leave?? God you just can’t put any effort in can you?”

Thankfully this was the final straw for Coulson, who began pushing Clint towards the door with no small amount of force. Steve sighed. He just wanted to make it out of this room with all 6 team mates still on the team. It was a dangerous balancing game, and while he understood Tony wanting to escape the situation he needed him to stay here so he could explain Clint’s behaviour, and so Steve could set up that desperately needed discussion. If Stark left now there was literally no telling when he would next be seen, and that did frustrate him, Stark’s absolute refusal to stick around when the moment got uncomfortable for him.

“Stark obviously we need to talk about what Clint said, you can’t just leave in the middle of the meeting.”

“What do you want me to say Cap?? Oh yeah, I chose to be late, I just relish the idea of civilians dying when I could stop it.”

Steve felt something clench in his chest, hard . 

That was- That was wrong, that was unacceptable to even think about joking about-

Those people had families. They were people who were loved, people who would be missed, people who could’ve done with aerial help in those critical first few minutes, people who didn’t deserve their deaths to be spoken about so blaise. 

“What the hell do you expect people to think when you rock up 20 minutes late with no explanation Stark? We never see you, and now you cant even be bothered to respond to a call?? It’s irresponsible. It’s not how an avenger should act.” Steve spat out, rage gripping him as he thought of everyone he’d seen die in battles, about how they were always viewed by people like Stark as ‘unfortunate collateral’.

Not people. Not-

Not Bucky.

“Yeah Stark, you wanna call yourself a hero, an avenger?? Maybe you should actually put the work in. You can’t just quit every time this isn’t fun for you.”

Steve blinked in surprise at seeing Clint next to him, he hadn’t even seen him escape Coulson. 

“Yeah, well maybe that would be the case if I was an Avenger, but hello, consultant here.”

Steve took a step back in shock, the rage tightening his muscles relinquishing its grip slightly. That was- what?? He looked at Fury in confusion, but Fury just looked back, impassive. 

Confirmation, essentially. God. That was- that was awful . What-

“Oh, pulling the sympathy card, are we now Stark? God, what level are you willing to stoop to. Poor little me, I didn’t get a gilded invitation to join the Avengers.”

And at that he looked up at Tony and Clint. Now that the anger had faded he… shit what did he do? He and Clint, they were- they were practically cornering the man. 

He watched, breathless at how wrong everything had gone, as Coulson pulled Barton away, hissing in his ear. He stood by as Clint opened his mouth, twisting at the corner mockingly like a snarl, eyes opened so wide his irises floated in the whites. 

It was like watching a plate fall. He almost knew it was going to happen. Watched in slow motion as the words flew out of Clint’s mouth like poison tipped arrows. Couldn’t quite move fast enough to stop it from happening, he reached his hand out belatedly, as if to take the words and eat them himself, just so they didn’t have to be heard, just so their ugliness didn’t have to be externalised, just so they didn’t reach Tony. 

“If you were any kind of man or Avenger you’d take the suit off and talk to me face to face, you coward.”

Something about it snapped the tension in the air. Like the whole room had been doused in cold water as everyone fell silent, watching Tony. He distinctly heard Natasha drawn in a breath through her teeth as he felt his own face grow paler. 

Coulson recovered fastest, hurrying a still and silent Clint across the room. Clint’s vicious expression was melting off his face, finally looking tired rather than full of burning exhaustion. His mouth opened slightly and his eyebrows furrowed, like he had no idea the words were coming, and didn't know how to take them back. He didn’t react at all as Coulson ushered his unresponsive body towards the door. 

“JARVIS. Unlock suit.”

 A beat passed, and then Tony came stumbling out. 

Steve made an aborted movement forward as if to catch him, as Tony straightened and spun around to face Barton.

“What, is this what you want, so big of a difference? What, just gonna let your caregiver lead you off?? Got nothing to say now do you??”

Steve’s nose wrinkled at the smell of sweat and something… acrid pervading the room. He clenched his jaw against it, sighing as he began to spin Stark round to face him.

“Stark, I understand Barton shouldn’t have said… anything, but I will not tolerate discrimination-”

His eyes met Stark’s and the words died in his mouth, sour and decaying.  

Steve’s heart dropped.

Tony was- he was-

Tony looked horrible . His hair was matted to his scalp in places, his eyes were manically bright, his face was white in a way Steve had never seen on a human being. He looked almost green under the fluorescent lighting and it made the trail of bright crimson extending from his hairline that much more jarring. 

He looked near death, and Steve’s voice snagged in his throat, a delayed sort of whine leaving his mouth as he looked up, trying to make eye contact with someone, anyone, who could tell him what the fuck was going on. He was met with Bruce’s twin look of horror, he was frozen awkwardly with one arm half reaching out, and Clint’s look of undiluted shock.

He looked back down to Tony, meeting his eyes. They were red rimmed, and had bags so dark they were nearly black, and God was it hard to look at, to see how badly he had failed his teammate not even knowing how, but his eyes felt glued in place. 

Tony’s eyes were constantly focusing and unfocusing as he began swaying back and forth, and Steve wanted so desperately to reach out and steady him, but… he just couldn’t move.

This was never meant to happen, he had no idea how to even compute let alone respond to this. 

Instead he watched, in abject horror, as Tony continued speaking. 

“And what about me? Pretty sure a biased report would count as discrimination wouldn’t it.” 

Steve couldn’t breathe when he noticed the tears brimming in Stark’s eyes as he leaned closer. The tighter proximity allowed Steve to feel a horrible unnatural heat coming off Stark, the air already thick, sickly and heavy with tension while he stood there, still frozen in shock and indecision.

“Well Captain?? This is me out of the armour, never an Avenger, but I did everything . Why is nothing I do enough?!” Tony yelled, looking around as if to get input from their audience.

The tears finally fell, brimming over his eyelids and down his face, fast and unstopping, and Steve moved a hand forward jerkily as if to swipe them away and this wasn't meant to be happening this was stark , the tony stark and he was not meant to be watching him break right here right now-

“Why does nothing I do. Ever. MATTER!!”

Tony crumpled as he screamed, heart wrenching sobs erupting from him and that was apparently the thing to kickstart Steve back into the land of the moving. He rushed forwards instinctively, grabbing Stark’s arms to keep him upright, and was met with deep hazel eyes, full of tears and fatigue, his lips trembling. 

He looked right at Steve and whispered “I wan’ m’paci.”

And just like that Steve stopped breathing again. 

Please. Please let me have heard that wrong. 

He was in such disbelief that his grip slipped, Tony dipping to one side suddenly before Coulson and Barton were there behind Tony, reaching desperate hands out to help steady him. Steve looked up at Coulson, and saw the same awful mix of guilt, concern and terror reflected back at him.

Tony somehow went whiter at the movement, tipping his head back and wailing . He started trying to fight his way out of Steve’s hands, so weak it made his own eyes burn as concern gripped his heart tight . Tony was almost unbearably hot this close, heat was radiating off of him like he was on fire, and Steve wondered how he could’ve possibly missed this.

Steve looked up at Coulson, utterly lost at what he had done and what to do now, inadvertently allowing Tony to twist out of his grip slightly. 

Tony went silent.

It was the worst thing Steve had ever heard. Wet heat spread across Steve’s legs, and it took a second for the sensation and smell to process in his head and he winced, realising what had happened. Tony seemed completely oblivious as he hung limply, body shaking, eyes wide and pupils nearly nonexistent. Steve breathed in sharply as he realised Tony wasn’t breathing and leaned in to-

The noise that came out of Tony’s mouth was subhuman. Steve had never heard anything like it. Ever. The concern somehow multiplied, the word didn’t even feel deep enough to convey the sheer level of terror Steve felt at Tony’s welfare.

Tony seemed to scream himself out, drawing in shuddery gasps that sounded closer to a death rattle than him actually drawing in oxygen. He fell into Steve’s chest, struggling to push himself back up to lean on Barton.

“I dun’.... I dun feel, feel g- good…..”

Stark trailed off and his eyes, still rimmed with tears, rolled back in his head as his full weight leant left.

Steve watched, transfixed in fear as Tony plummeted towards the floor, his body making a horrible noise on impact.

Steve fell down onto his knees, the crack disgustingly loud in the room as he placed two fingers along Stark’s pulse point. 

It jumped weakly under his sweaty fingers.

It was there, fast, and thready, but there.

He put his ear to Stark’s mouth.

“He’s breathing and his pulse is there but it’s thready!” He called out. 

“Fuck. Fuck. Nick, call medical.” Coulson said, running a hand through his hair.

Fury just gave him a look, the radio already in his hand.

“Natasha, take Clint… somewhere ok we need to- I need to stay here for a sec.”

Coulson hurried over to where Steve was on the ground, with Tony’s head lying on his legs. He got close to Tony’s face, and Steve couldn’t help but be morbidly impressed, even considering the situation, at how Coulson’s nose barely delivered the minutest of twitches at the smell.

He tapped at Tony’s cheek rapidly.

“Stark?? Stark?? C’mon Tony give me something, c’mon.”

“I can help.” came a quiet voice from above them.

Banner stood just to the side of them, and his eyes widened and face paled as he properly lay eyes on Tony. He was knelt beside them in what felt like a second. 

SHIELD HQ: conference room 3, Bruce’s POV

Bruce couldn’t believe he had allowed this to happen as he knelt over Tony’s lifeless looking form. He ran through the Glasgow Coma Scale almost subconsciously, logging Tony’s responses in a haze as he drowned himself in guilt. 

8. Tony was an 8. 

Oh Jesus Christ. 

“Where the hell is medical.” Bruce demanded tersely as he ripped the undersuit apart with his bare hands, hands fluttering frantically over the arc reactor.

He was by no means equipped enough to diagnose the working condition of the arc reactor but the light was solid, there was no clear issue with the casing, and that was all he needed for now. Arc: on meant Tony’s heart: on.

He muttered a sorry under his breath before pinching Tony’s underarm, hard. 

Nothing.

This is bad, this is so bad.

He clenched his jaw, preparing himself before he pressed his thumb hard into Tony’s mandibular nerve, steadfastly ignoring Steve’s horrified look.

Tony moaned in pain, and the relief that filled Bruce was near tangible. 

It did not last long, as Tony’s eyes flickered, still rolled back, and he convulsed.

“Shit! Steve turn him over right now!”

Bruce watched as pink foam came trickling out of Tony’s mouth as his body expelled it weakly. He tried to breathe through the panic, feeling along Tony’s side and locating at least

3 broken ribs. He felt his stomach drop as he checked Tony’s fingernails.

Blue.

Broken ribs, spitting up red, cyanosis.

“Fury I need fucking medical now!!”

No response. 

Bruce looked over to Steve.

“Steve I think.. I think I need a knife he needs… we need to get the pressure off his lungs. Now.”

“Bruce… I-”

“No Steve he needs it, I need a- can someone please get me a knife?!” He called, frantic.

“Bruce.” A firm hand landed on his wrist and he looked down, breathing heavily. His green, enlarged wrist.

“They’re here” Steve said, and when he looked up, sure enough, there they were. 4 EMTs and stretcher, collected at the side of the room. 

“Well why aren’t you moving.” Bruce snarled.

“Bruce. You need to move away.” 

Bruce looked down at Steve and-

He looked down at Steve.

Bruce deflated, looking between himself and the medics, realising he was half green and looming over Tony, blocking their way. He breathed out shakily, feeling himself shrink down again and allowing himself to be pulled to the side. 

The medical staff started moving towards Tony, nervously at first and then a rapid blur of motion once they saw his state.

Coulson, still kneeling beside Tony but looking decidedly rattled, began firing off his observations at the workers, who were strapping Tony onto the stretcher and affixing a gas mask to his face.

“History of pulmonary fibrosis, suspected pulmonary edema secondary to pneumonia, hemoptysis, suspected 3 broken ribs; blunt force trauma-”

“Hemothorax.” Bruce forced out. “Hemothorax due to, he’s got a traumatic hemothorax, broken ribs, he needs an emergency thoracostomy. I need a knife.”

The EMS worker closest to Bruce paled. 

“We’ve got acute respiratory failure!!” one of the medics called out as they all hurried around Tony’s body.

Tony. Bruce reminded himself. Tony, not Tony’s body. He’s not dead y- he’s not dead.

“Respiratory arrest!!”

“They aren’t gonna make it.” Bruce realised out loud.

He turned, looking at the drawn, haggard face of Steve.

“Steve. They aren’t going to make it.”

Steve stared at him, and then nodded once.

SHIELD HQ, Steve’s POV

The world seemed to fade to just him as Tony as he scooped him into his arms and took off down the hall, ignoring the outraged cries of the medical staff. 

He’s so light. How long has he been neglecting himself like this??

Steve pushed through the influx of guilt at how Tony had looked the last 2 times he saw him, and how he’d just brushed it off.

How the way he was carrying Tony cast a light blue glow in his periphery. How Bruce had revealed it and it had been inside Tony. The skin around it was red and cracking and Steve was steadfastly ignoring the thoughts questioning how deep that went into Tony and the fact that he willingly displayed something connected to his organs on the outside of the armour..

He finally reached the right level and went tearing into the ward, feeling suddenly self conscious surrounded by confused looking nurses.

“He stopped breathing.” Steve gasped out, thrusting Tony towards the nearest nurse.

Her eyes went wide, and she started yelling instructions to the surrounding staff. Tony was pulled out of Steve’s arms and placed on a bed and just like that.

He was gone.

And Steve was left behind with empty hands and a guilty conscience. 

Chapter Text

SHIELD Helicarrier, Intensive Medical Care Floor, 2012, Clint’s POV

Clint felt sick. 

He sat on the chair in the corridor, steadfastly avoiding Daddy’s gaze as his feet swung back and forth, toes just scuffing the white linoleum. Too white, it was hurting his eyes, still sore from the round of crying earlier. 

He felt sick. Guilt and hurt and something heavy and sticky was making his tummy hurt and he wanted it to go away but it couldn’t because Daddy was still upset with him. 

He’d messed up, seriously messed up, and now Uncle Tony was hurt, and not kiss it better hurt. 

He didn’t like hospitals. He didn’t really feel like he liked Uncle Tony at the moment because if it wasn’t for him he wouldn’t be in the stupid hospital, but Daddy had said he had hurt Uncle Tony, not hitting hurt, but words hurt. And memories of when he was big (or kind of big. He’d refused to admit it to daddy but he maybe hadn’t quite been all the way big) could be fuzzy, but he remembered being tired and sad and yell-y and then Uncle Tony had looked bad. Like really bad. 

He swallowed, chewing aggressively on the inside of his lip, twisting his mouth. 

He didn’t wanna be in the hospital, and he didn’t wan’ Uncle Tony to be in the hospital and he was really, really sorry.

Last time he was in hospital the doctors hurt his arm super bad and then before that Daddy was dead but then he wasn’t and he was so, so sad.

He desperately held his breath when he felt the sob bubbling up in his throat. Daddy was already mad, he didn’t want to make him madder with crocodile tears.

His chest was getting tight now as he thought about how white Uncle Tony had been and how mean he’d been to him. No wonder Daddy didn’t like him right now. 

He forced back the urge to sniff, feeling his nose start running down his lip. It felt yucky, and he really wanted to breathe in. He thought he could feel his face getting hotter, and his chest felt tight. His legs were starting to feel a bit loose, and in the midst of everything he scuffed his foot against the floor again, his sneakers squeaking.

Daddy looked up, Clint could just about meet his eyes through his hair.

“Clint please will you stop-” he started agitatedly, cutting off, and Clint ducked his head further down, his diaphragm spasming as he panicked, frantically holding back the gasp.

“Clint?”

And then his Daddy was moving in front of him quickly, sinking onto his knees and grabbing his chin and lifting it up. 

Clint averted his eyes anyway in shame as the tear tracks revealed themselves, not even dried because fresh tears were still following the old trails.

“Clint buddy, I’m so sorry but you need to breathe ok?? I need you to take a big breath in for daddy.” Daddy said, a bit too fast to be as calm as he was acting. 

Clint tried to wrench out of Daddy’s grip, face crumpling and more tears rushing down his flushed cheeks as he contained the sob deep in his chest.

Daddy pulled his head back, and followed his eyes when they slid away. 

“Clint, I don’t know what you’re thinking right now but it probably isn’t true, and I need you to breathe now ok?? Just let go Birdie.”

And with that Clint’s composure finally collapsed, and he took a sharp breath in. It seemed to go on forever, he just breathed in and in and in over and over again with sharp rasps, and Clint was just starting to seriously panic that he was just gonna keep breathing in forever when the tension finally broke and he barely recognised the noise that left him, somewhere between a sob and a wail. He had absolutely zero control over his breathing, like a monster had grabbed his lungs and was squeezing them, the air pumped in and out rapidly, catching on sobs as he near dissolved into Daddy’s arms.

“I- don’ - wan’ Unc’l… To- To-ny to die” He eventually forced out through breaths, and Daddy’s hands were all over him, stroking his back, his face, arms wrapped around him firmly.

He seemed to cry forever, and when he finally emerged from Daddy’s arms he was sticky with tears, snot, embarrassment and guilt. Normally a cry with Daddy would fix everything. Then it hit him. He might have done something not fixable by Daddy. Just the idea made his eyes start valiantly watering again.

“Clint?? You did something bad, okay buddy, I’m not going to let that go, you do need to apologize, but I reckon you feel bad enough right now right??”

Clint nodded miserably, lower lip wobbling.

“St- Uncle Tony isn’t going to die bud. He’s just very sick, like that cold you had but a bit worse, but he’ll be fine.”

“We can make him soup.” Clint said determinedly, looking up to meet Daddy’s eyes. “And then he won’t die like you.”

Daddy's face made a funny shape then, and he sounded strangled when he said “Oh Clint.” and pulled him in for another hug.

SHIELD Helicarrier, Intensive Medical Care, Resuscitation Ward, 2012, Steve’s POV

Steve felt sick. And that wasn’t even meant to be possible. He was sitting in the corridor outside Tony’s room, not even left alone to his misery because it didn’t matter how much money Tony had, he didn’t have a high dependency ward, ICU or resuscitation unit. So here he was, sitting in the corridor of the resus ward, nurses bustling around him left, right and center. He’d been expecting more… He doesn’t even know. Fanfare?? Tony had been near death and here he was, being eyed up by a nurse who seemed to be preparing to ask him if he wanted tea for a second time. It seemed bizarre.

He obviously didn’t want to be in a resus ward, the reasons why being easily highlighted in the name itself, but he’d expected more- well more resuscitation. As it was he had a pretty good view of 3 people, presumably SHIELD patients, all 3 of whom were conscious, and one of which was even talking. 

He guessed hospitals weren’t really all yelling and 5mg of Epinephrine and defibrillators like on TV.

It left him feeling displaced. Going from all the tension and anger and worry to sitting in a relatively peaceful corridor. He felt out of place, all the adrenaline drained out of him too fast, leaving him grasping at thin air as they carted Tony off somewhere he couldn’t see. 

It left him with his guilt is what it did, and it was so hard to admit to himself that he was truly afraid of that. 

He had fucked up. He had in fact, fucked up so bad that saying he fucked up kind of felt like an insult to Tony, the words weak in his mouth for what he had done. 

Tony, who was in a hospital bed right now because of his words, because of his actions.

He couldn’t stop replaying it, the whole thing, the signs he missed, the way Tony was worked up, up, up until he simply couldn’t take it anymore, his body and mind giving in to the stress. How he had chosen the side of the team over and over, consistently forgetting or just ignoring that Tony was an essential part of said team.

He never thought Tony would need help, and that was the root of the problem. He had assumed, and had never offered, had allowed his own personal biases to draw a picture of Tony and then laid it over every interaction they had. Hadn’t even offered him the basic support he had offered to all the team members. He had thought Tony Stark was self sufficient, cold and unfeeling,  and even if Tony had in fact been a dom it wouldn’t have even mattered. Because Steve had seen. He had seen how fragile Tony was and had walked away. He was the worst kind of person, worst kind of caregiver. Despicably negligent at best and a downright vicious bully at worst. He felt absolutely disgusted with himself.

And every few minutes, the self righteous anger and reassurance would bubble up, assurance that he had done his best, that Tony should have asked for help, that he couldn’t have seen, just to be squashed every time by the pure weight of his guilt. The knowledge that Tony had provided for them, fed them, clothed them, looked after them and New York all while practically screaming for some support himself. Tony had done nothing wrong. Tony was hurting and vulnerable, and Steve should’ve done bette-

He took a few deep breaths, refusing to allow his eyes to water up in front of the curious SHIELD agent across from him, half concealed by a blue pull around curtain. He looked up sharply as he heard the door to Tony’s room click closed behind him, hopeful eyes meeting the nurses' tired ones. She just shook her head sadly, and he slumped back down onto the chair. He still hadn’t actually been allowed to see Tony, and he knew Tony deserved better than him, but Steve was the only one currently there, and he would sooner die than leave the man- boy alone in this sterile wasteland.

Because Tony didn’t seem to have anyone else.

That thought made his stomach clench hard, and he felt hot, hot shame rising up with the acid in his throat as he frantically waved down one of the nurses, hand clasped tightly over his mouth. The shy tea offering brunette’s eyes widened as she took in his stance and came running over with a biohazard bag clasped in her hand.

She thrust it under him and he gagged hard, vomit spewing from between his fingers. He shakily pulled the hand away from his mouth, attempting to breathe in just to be cut off by another vicious gag. 

When he finally leaned back his eyes were watering, wet trails cooling on his face, flushed pink with exertion as he sat back in the chair, trembling. He looked down at the bag, half filled, and belatedly realized the nurse's hand was rubbing slow circles into his back. He could feel heat moving into his already flushed cheeks.

She seemingly realized he was done, and pulled her hand back, looking nearly as embarrassed as he felt.

“Are you okay now Mr Rogers??” 

Oh great, she knew who he was. 

She was looking down at him, eyes concerned, and he had to duck his chin again, desperately wishing for his eyes to dry out.

He didn’t deserve concern. Not now, not like this, not when Tony was-

“D’you know when I can see him??” He blurted out, looking up at her.

Her face somehow appeared more flustered than before.

“Well, Sir, I can- I mean I’m actually a medical student?? I don’t- I mean I can- Yes okay of course you would want to- yeah. I can access the system for you to see how long it’ll be??”

He nodded gratefully, resuming his previous position; head bowed, hands clasped tightly in front of him.

As though praying.

Heaven knows I owe Tony repentance. 

The nurse hurried away.

—

It had been at least a half hour before she came back, and in that time Steve had methodically peeled off the skin around every one of his left hand nails.

“Sir I am so sorry the system is an absolute mess, Mr Stark is a- well he’s a very difficult case and I had to get permission to access everything, and- well you can see him, is the big thing.”

Steve shot out of his seat, ignorant of the girl rearing back in alarm.

“What?? How, when??” He rushed out.

“Well, Mr Stark designated you as his primary emergency contact and the other members of the Avengers team as his secondaries. The problem was that in the system only the little’s caregiver is allowed into intensive care wards, and as Mr Stark entered the hospital today under the little label the system got all confused. It’s a… unique situation, the system is panicking because Mr Stark is officially designated neutral-dom. I’m so sorry, you should have been allowed in much sooner.” 

Steve didn’t have the heart in him to be angry at her, she looked so intensely apologetic, and truly it wasn’t her fault Tony had somehow managed to hide his designation from even the government for years. It almost made him feel he needed the sick bag again, the true implications of how long Tony had hid this.

The idea of Tony, alone for all those years, literally screaming out for attention with all his little ‘mannerisms’ Steve had just written off so easily. Tony, denying himself all affection, the idea of any little going their whole life with no caregiver, scraping by by themselves-

“I need to see him.”

“Yes, yeah of course, just… hang on I just need to…”

She swiped her battered looking key card through the holder on the wall a few times, Steve positively vibrating next to her. 

It finally let out a muted beep, and Steve was walking in.

The room was white and dulled blue, with a few peeling animal decals dancing in a line across the walls, and there in the center of the room, was Tony. 

He looked tiny, dwarfed in the bed, clad only one of those awful paper gowns. His hair spilled over his eyes, and his mouth was slightly parted, a thin line of dried up bloody foam trailing down his cheek. He had what looked to be a hundred leads attached to his thin frame. Way, way too thin. He looked sick, undeniably so, too pale to be natural, too still to be just sleeping, his chest rising too mechanically as the ventilator pushed air in and out rhythmically. Steve was reminded, suddenly, deeply and uncomfortably, of his mother, dying in the sanitorium. He surged across the small space, picking up Tony’s translucent hand, disturbed anew at how his hand seemed to absorb it completely. 

“God Tony.”  He uttered, brokenly even to his own ears.

The nurse coughed nervously, shuffling on her feet somewhere behind him.

“Mr Stark is seriously unwell, however we’ve flushed the suppressants out of his system now and his immune system should be… rebooting. Helping to flush the virus out.”

Suppressants. As if there wasn’t enough to deal with here already.

“Will he be okay??” Steve breathed, turning slightly to look at her.

She flushed, clearly uncomfortable. 

“I’m so sorry, I’m not his lead or support, and I really can’t say anything for sure-” she looked physically pained as Steve clearly did a meager job at pushing down his panic.

“He won’t die. That’s really all I can say Sir.” 

Steve just nodded at her, watery, and she sighed in relief as she turned away and left, the door clicking shut behind her. 

Chapter Text

"all the children hum a hymn

and id like to run away but to leave would be a sin

im missing a house that ive never called home

im missing a time that ive never known"

the chapel - by madilyn mei

SHIELD Medical Center, Intensive Care Ward, 3 days later, 2012, Steve’s POV

It had been 3 days since Tony had ended up in hospital, and the beginning of the 3rd day marked the first time Steve reluctantly left Tony’s bedside for anything other than the bathroom.  Tony looked exactly the same as he left him as he had when he arrived, barring the slight progress of healing on the superficial cuts and scrapes. He was still pale and gaunt, covered in various tubes and medical tape. He breathed in with the woosh of air from the ventilation machine, and out with the clicking noise it made, and not much else. 

Various members of the team had tried dragging Steve away the first few days, with no success, until they realized nothing short of a miracle (or a high powered sedative, as Coulson had threatened) was going to pull him away. As it turned out Coulson didn’t need Ketamine to remove Steve from Tony’s bedside - he just needed a doctor asking to speak to Tony’s friends and family about his condition, and Steve was practically flying to his feet, only pausing to send a forlorn expression, that they had all familiarized themselves with over the past few days, at Tony’s hand before he allowed the spindly calloused fingers to fall from his grip. 

Steve trotted anxiously at the heels of the harried looking SHIELD doctors leading them down the endless impersonal white halls, oblivious to apprehensive stares being passed between the rest of the team. He pushed through the door after the doctor, muttering an embarrassed “sorry” when his boots caught on the back of the man’s smart shoes. 

They all sat at one end of the table, staring at the doctor as he rearranged his notes obsessively, looking slightly pale. Steve could see why, the Avengers were essentially preparing for battle a couple meters away.

“Uh, hm, ok,” he coughed, “I just need to double check, you are Steven Rogers, Natalia Romanova, Clinton Barton, Bruce Banner and Thor Odinson, correct?”

Natasha raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow in response, and Steve couldn’t help but wonder if this man was stupid or whether he was genuinely trying to pretend he didn’t recognise them at all. He didn’t see how anyone could possibly confuse Coulson and Thor. If he had to pick 2 people he knew who were least alike they would certainly be near the top of the list. 

Fortunately Phil took over before any of them had a chance to tell the doctor to get on with it in no uncertain terms. 

“Phillip Coulson, as commanding officer of the Avenegr’s initiative I’m entitled to any information that puts a member of the team off the roster.” 

“Ah, right, well ok then, but I would just-”

“You can take it up with Director Fury should you wish after this meeting.” 

“No, no, I’m sure that would- no it’s fine.” He stuttered, paling further.

“Thor is off-world.” Steve interjected impatiently. “The rest of the team as listed is here. Can we please hear about Tony now?”

“Ok, of course, Anthony Stark has already given permission for you all to be able to hear about anything related to his medical condition fortunately, or this would be much harder. So, upon intake Anthony-”

“Can you just call him Tony. Please.” Bruce muttered from behind Steve. “He’s Tony.” 

The doctor plowed on as if he had heard nothing.

“Antony was in respiratory arrest, which required rapid sequence intubation.” Clocking everyone except Bruce’s blank expressions, he blushed slightly “that is uh- we placed a tube down Anthony’s trachea in order to mechanically inflate his lungs. Once we had intubated him we decompressed his stomach with a second tube which is the one you can see entering his nose. That was to prevent any side effects of the tube. Now, as Anthony has an extensive history of lung problems-”

“He what -” started Clint, only to be cut off by Coulson whispering “Not now” sharply in his ear.

The doctor cleared his throat. “Anthony is a unique case, the… assistive heart device known as the arc reactor occupies a significant portion of his lungs, and he has extensive scarring throughout both lobes that we can only theorize emerged during his captivity and subsequent surgeries, as Anthony won’t tell us himself…” He trailed off, a bitter expression souring his face.

“Anyways, we classify him under the COPD umbrella, which is a group of lung conditions which can make pneumonia more likely. Based on both Agent Coulson’s observations and our own medical history on Anthony we got him in for a lung x-ray immediately, which revealed infiltrates in both lobes of lungs, suggesting he had quite a severe case of pneumonia. Fortunately testing of the pulmonary edema revealed it was not blood, disproving Dr Banner’s theory of hemothorax. Anthony does have 2 fractured ribs, which we’ve wrapped, and was lucky to avoid a hemothorax, but honestly with his state of health as it is I’m not sure he would have made it should that have been the case.”

Steve’s heart caught in his chest, and he let out a shaky breath. The doctor continued shuffling through papers, completely unaware of the shock he had doused the other occupants of the room with. He startled at a small whimper behind him, and met Clint’s eyes, rapidly filling with water.

Coulson sighed.

“If you would excuse me doctor.” He said stiffly, steering Clint out by the shoulders.

The doctor hummed, not even looking up. Steve twisted in his seat, looking for someone to validate his anger, and Bruce’s rage filled eyes didn’t let him down, but didn’t exactly comfort him either. He patted Bruce’s arm lightly, nodding in response to Banner’s incredulous head tilt towards the doctor.

“We did a brain scan as well by the way, that’s when Anthony was in the MRI, there was a concern for brain damage because of the wound on the back of his head due to the crash in his suit. Luckily that also revealed only a Grade 2 concussion, the only real consequence of that is possible minor amnesia - he might not remember the past day or so before he ended up in hospital.”

The doctor continued on, seemingly unaware of the near heart attack he had just caused with the phrase ‘brain damage’ 

“So, the x-ray we did today to check Anthony’s progress on the antibiotics revealed an impressive improvement, probably due to the removal of toxic substances by IV flush we performed, and we believe we can try removing the ventilator with your consent later today. However the other reason the fluid has cleared Anthony’s lungs so quickly is because some of it is leaking outside the lungs. We call this pleural effusion, and while not ideal, the amount Anthony currently has is manageable, and with your permission we’ll insert some drainage tubes surgically to remove the fluid.”

Stve looked towards Bruce for opinions, and he nodded mutely. 

“Yeah, that’s ok, just... Whatever you need.”

“Now, onto er- more… sensitive matters.”

Steve swallowed, the all too familiar feeling of guilt rising up his throat.

“So. As I’m sure you are aware our blood tests on Anthony revealed many imbalances, some, such as the iron and potassium could be explained through dietary deficiencies, however others could not, and the presence of and balance of some specific hormones do indicate Anthony’s true designation is as a Little.”

Despite already knowing that, logically, having it laid out in plain and definitive language really brought the reality home, and Steve couldn’t repress his quiet sharp inhale. Next to him, Bruce lowered his head into his hands, breathing out heavily. Natasha didn’t react visibly, but that itself told Steve she too was affected. Natasha only covered her emotions completely around Steve when she was in a situation she was unsure about. 

“Now, Anthony is officially registered in our system as a Neutral-Dom, I take it that was the same for you??”

Steve nodded. 

“Ok then. I have to inform you that concealing one’s designation is considered a crime, however no official penalties exist for Little designations, partly due to the extremely rare event of a Little successfully concealing their designation past the age of 21, and partly due to the possibility of them not acting in full mind. There is still a chance of Anthony facing repercussions, however considering he has the backing of SHIELD and his high status I seriously doubt anything truly important would come of a legal enquiry.”

The doctor shuffled his mound of papers again, plucking one out and peering at through his wire rimmed glasses.

“Ah here it is. Anthony’s bloodwork revealed the presence of several foreign chemicals, which we have determined to belong to a class 3 illegal headspace suppressor. SHIELD knows about this due to Anthony’s blood work, however due to HIPPA I legally cannot disclose this to any police force, so whether Anthony faces consequences for possession and use of these substances is left to the higher management of SHIELD to decide. There is, however, a good case for Anthony not being mentally capable of being held accountable due to his true designation.”

Steve grit his teeth, holding back the words trying to escape up his throat. Littles were just as competent as anyone else, and the constant assertion that Tony would be fine just because he was nothing more than a Little and therefore couldn’t help himself was setting Steve’s nerves on edge. While he couldn’t begin to understand why Tony would hide this for so long he seriously doubted opinions like those beheld by the doctor were exactly encouraging Tony to come clean.

“We used an IV flush to push the chemicals out of his system, and have been carefully monitoring his hormone and nutrient levels. The high levels of liquid needed to clear the suppressants can cause imbalances, so throughout Anthony’s stay here we will probably be making corrections and additions to his medications, we will inform you if this is due to a serious problem. Have you got any questions for now?”

To Steve’s surprise, Natasha chimed in.

“Yes, what happens now?? What’s the course of treatment, estimated hospital stay, and how will we help him when he gets out?”

To the doctor’s credit, he only blinked for a second or so before visibly collecting his thoughts to answer Natasha’s barrage. 

“So, we will continue IV and antibiotic infusions, and we will try a breathing study where we remove the ventilator for a short while and monitor whether Anthony’s lungs can support themselves. We will reduce his x-rays to once every 3 or so days because we don’t want to risk unnecessary radiation.”

The doctor glanced nervously at Bruce, and Steve could just hear a stifled, dry, acerbic laugh.

“With your permission I would feel more comfortable introducing a feeding tube, it’s not strictly necessary but I’m unhappy with Anthony’s weight and introducing nutrients intravenously will only put further stress on his system. Anthony hasn’t been looking after himself properly in a very long time, and the best way to help combat this in my medical opinion is to reintroduce proper amounts of food to his system while he’s still unconscious-”

“We give permission for the feeding tube.” Steve blurted out the second the doctor took a breath.To say he was also ‘uncomfortable’ with Tony’s weight would be the understatement of the year.

“ Yes, well that's good. Speaking of his unconscious state, Anthony will remain sedated for a few more days, we want to further stabilize him before he wakes, and it would be extremely unpleasant for him to be conscious while he continues to detox from the suppressants regardless. I can’t give you an estimate for Anthony’s discharge, there are simply too many factors involved to accurately predict a resolution. Besides, we can’t relinquish Anthony to anyone but his registered caregiver with injuries this severe and what we would consider a HII - Headspace Induced Injury. ”

An uncomfortable silence settled in the room, and the doctor sighed, pulling off his glasses and rubbing at his temples before straightening up with resolve, looking like a man entering a war zone. 

“Look, I can understand this is a sensitive topic, and I debated bringing it up or not, but this is extremely unhealthy. I am quite frankly shocked that Anthony has gone this long without suffering a nervous breakdown or, based on the level of cortisol we observed, a premature heart attack. The possibility of him not having entered his headspace for the better part of months is extremely concerning and very real. All of SHIELD medical personnel are bound by rigorous NDA’s, and I know that Director Fury himself-” He gulped “-has been involved in the containment of this information. This will not get out to the public, but you need to find someone to become Anthony’s caregiver. That is not optional, no matter what ANthony believes, aside from illegality he will end up right back in hospital, 1 month, 2 weeks, 1 week from now, it doesn’t really matter. I have never seen a patient of Anthony’s age successfully hide their designation their whole life, and quite frankly I never wanted to. You simply cannot ignore this and I will not release Anthony from this hospital if you don’t take the necessary steps to ensure his health outside of it.”

He looked at them expectantly. Steve tried his absolute hardest not to take offense to the frank words. Because he could exclaim to his heart’s content that they would never allow Tony to continue this way, but really, what evidence did this man have to believe that. What had he done for Tony to prevent things from getting to this stage?

“We will.” Bruce said definitively, and Steve nodded along with him. They would fix this.

“Ok then, I’ll be by later to check on Anthony and a nurse will be round shortly to deliver the documents and discuss the smaller elements of Anthony’s care.” The doctor nodded, pushing out of the room with his seemingly expanding pile of papers. Natasha silently pushed out of her chair and followed him, the door swinging shut behind them with a dull thud.

SHIELD Medical Center, Intensive Care Ward, 2012, Bruce’s POV 

Bruce was tired. Physically, mentlly, emotionally- the better word might be shattered. He alternated between not sleeping in the uncomfortable chair by Tony’s bed and not sleeping in his too comfortable bed at the Tower, too wracked with guilt to relax. If it wasn’t for JARVIS startling him awake that morning to inform him of the later meeting with the doctor he would have confidently said he hadn’t slept since Tony smashed into the building 3 days ago. 

He trailed between the tower and the hospital, swapping out with teammates that looked just as guilty as him to sit besides Steve, who had point blank refused to leave Tony’s side. Bruce could appreciate the view point, but couldn’t understand how Steve could stand it. 2 hours with Tony made Bruce feel sick with guilt and shame, he always ended fleeing to the cafeteria to drink cup upon cup of weak green tea, trying to soothe his anxiety as he ran through all the ways he could have prevented this situation.

It didn’t help that on top of the guilt of leaving Tony to deal with everything himself he had nearly killed the man. He was certain that when he finally ended up sleeping he would be haunted for weeks with dreams of himself leering over Tony’s unconscious body, knife in hand. 

He shuddered, the possibility of what had almost happened stealing the heat from his skin. 

He hated Tony’s doctors for their impersonal manner of handling things, hated himself for being too involved to view things objectively, hated them for saying Tony was incapable of making his own decisions, hated himself for thinking Tony was capable of handling everything paced on top of him.

It was a vicious cycle, and he was reaching his emotional threshold. He followed Steve automatically back down the corridors to Tony’s room, each thump of his feet on the ground sending his heart rate ratcheting higher and higher until the pounding was all he could hear. They reached Tony’s door, and at the first glimpse of Tony in the bed Bruce couldn’t take it anymore.

“I can’t!” He burst out, breathing fast, every eye in the vicinity turned on him. He looked up, meeting Steve’s concerned and confused gaze. 

“I can’t oh my god Steve I actually can’t do this anymore with the doctors and the guilt and Tony and no one FUCKING TALKING ABOUT ANYTHING!” he yelled, hands clutching at his hair.

He sensed more than saw Steve moving towards him and stumbled back in horror.

“You can’t, oh my god the Other Guy, Hulk is- I’m going to- please don’t let me hurt Tony!” He pleaded between gasping breaths, panic sharpening each exhale.

Steve’s hand landed on his shoulder regardless, and Bruce slumped on the ground, gripping his arms close together, as if he could physically hold the Other Guy inside himself. Steve followed him anyway.

The fear of it, the stress, the whole situation seemed to build up around him, the rushing of blood in his ears the only sensory input as he clenched his eyes shut.

Until he felt a hand swipe across his cheek, cool skin running against their flushed red heat. 

He looked up, disoriented, to see Steve lookin at him tiredly. 

“You’re crying, Bruce.” he said gently, and when Bruce reached a hand up to his face, it came back wet. He stared at the moisture coating his fingertips for a second, confused. His still skin coloured fingertips. Everything seemed to crash down around him, the tension and fear snapping. His shoulders crumbled in as he sobbed quietly, allowing himself to be pulled in towards Steve’s side. He cried, for once secure in the feeling that Other Guy would let him have this moment.

It felt like hours later when Bruce pulled his head up, all cried out, feeling simultaneously overly warm and shivery. The warmth could have been generated by his face alone though, considering the heat emanating from his cheeks as he raised his head to look at Steve. 

“I am… so sorry Steve that was- I don’t know what that was.” he muttered, hands coming up to ashamedly wipe off the evidence of the tears.

“It’s okay.” 

Bruce’s head shot up, shocked to hear the watery note in his teammates voice, and when he looked at Steve’s eyes he saw the suspicious brightness coating them. 

“I was just- I’m tired and I feel so bad.”

“I understand.”

And, seeing the guilt mirrored in the other’s usually carefree expression, Bruce figured he did. 

“We all feel bad. We should feel bad, really. But I’ve been thinking. We’re not… helping Tony like this. There’s nothing to be achieved by us feeling guilty and not helping ourselves. We have to be ready for him, for when he wakes up. And if he wakes up and hates us-” 

Steve looked down at Bruce and visibly gulped, turning his head away as if ashamed.

“- well. Hates me. We can deal with that then. That’s up to Tony, he has that right, to be angry. But for now we wait for him to wake up, so we can let him know we’re sorry when he does.”

It clicked in Bruce’s head, what Steve was trying to convey, despite the slightly choppy delivery. He wasn’t helping Tony by breaking down on the hospital floor over guilt Tony himself would no doubt dismiss in an instance. He would admit it could be different for Steve. He and Tony were not exactly close. But Tony’s capacity for trust and forgiveness in Bruce seemed to be endless. He needed to try and let go of as much of the guilt as possible. It would not help Tony if he turned into Hulk and smashed up his ventilator.

He nodded, once, looking up to check Steve had caught it, but Steve was looking at him with a similar concern he typically reserved for his focus on Tony’s unconscious body.

“Are you okay??” he asked, brows furrowed. 

Bruce had to try not to laugh - had Steve not seen what had just happened? Of course he wasn’t ok, none of them were ok. 

However the question made slightly more sense when Steve reached out a hand to lay it across Bruce’s forehead.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, batting his hand away. He wasn’t a fan of unexpected contact, sue him.

A lot of people had actually sued him for damages when they touched him unexpectedly but hey, potato tomato.

“You’re warm, are you getting sick?” Steve questioned, brows still turned inwards.

Bruce tried hard not to rankle at being treated like a little - Steve was a caregiver, and though Bruce most definitely did not sway in the Little direction, he could understand the impulse to look after someone, and in that spirit, allowed Steve to ‘help him’ off the ground, which ended up being more of an awkward half carry than anything else, and check him over. Really, Bruce should have been grateful for the muscly arms wrapped around his because the second his head was in the air and his feet on the floor all the blood seemed to drain out from his brain, and he was left with black vision and feet leaning too far left. 

“Woah there Bruce, you still with me??” Steve said, tapping his face a few times. Bruce blinked back at him lethargically, trying to form words but barely moving his lips.

“Alright, we’re gonna sit down here for a second.” 

For a brief moment Bruce thought Steve was actually going set him down on his lap, but common sense seemed to take over and Steve lowered Bruce  into one of the chairs lining the hallway (by one arm, for which he was thankful for, he might be ok with letting Steve maneuver him to get out some of the caregiver instincts, but he truly didn’t find it enjoyable and to be set down on someone's lap by his armpits would push his embarrassment above his compassion). He pushed Bruce back, worried eyes scanning him rapidly, making a decision.

“Excuse me!!” He called, and a nurse came rushing over, conferring with Steve in hushed tones.

He blinked, and she was kneeling in front of him.

I should really get some sleep.

“Hi there sir, your friend here tells me you’re experiencing some dizziness??” 

Bruce just nodded, too burned out to do much else. 

“Alrighty then, I’m just going to do some observations.” 

He half wondered if she didn’t know he was, or if she was just truly not afraid of him as she strapped various equipment to his hands and arms.

He watched her face wearily for the inevitable expression of shock at his blood pressure, and sure enough her eyes widened and she began hurrying to her feet.

“It’s normal.” he piped up. “Side effect of… well.” he gestured to himself at her disbelieving gaze.

To his relief she seemed to accept it easily, simply nodding and moving onto checking his temperature.

Huh. Guess she did know he was then. He supposed SHIELD had seen all sorts but still. It was surprising to find no trace of fear when he examined her face, only soft professionalism. 

“Ok Dr Banner, could you stand up for me, just grab onto my arm there- yeah just like that.”

She began reinflating the blood pressure cuff as he wobbled on his legs, seemingly unbothered that the body of a rage monster was currently gripping her very human arm.

“Yep it’s what I thought. I’ll just pop you back down here Dr Banner. Now, I just need to check one more thing, is it ok for me to use this?” She held up what Bruce recognised as a finger prick blood sugar test. There was no judgment in her face, just quiet understanding.

It was nice. Bruce was so worn out.

“Yeah, I’m uh- pretty in control, however, ha- ironic that may sound.” 

She just nodded, sticking the needle against his finger and humming as the beeping of the machine filled his ears.

“Yep, exactly what I was thinking. You guys are in with Tony Stark right??”

They nodded, and her face softened as she smiled sympathetically.

“Yeah, nasty case that. Poor kid.” she said, eyes full of empathy. Bruce closed his eyes and breathed out through the renewed ache of Tony being referred to as ‘kid’.

“It’s stress,” she said bluntly. “Classic signs, dehydration, insomnia, not eating right. Your blood sugar’s low, your blood pressure drops when you stand and your temperature’s in the higher normal range. I want you to get some rest.”

“I-”

“No!” she cut him off “I’ve dealt with hundreds of SHIELD agents, and most of you are exactly the same. I don't care how Mr Stark ended up here, looking after yourself is not a disservice to him. We have a relative room down the hall. You’re not technically in that category but I can fend off anyone who tries to get you out.”

He thought about protesting, but if he was honest with himself he was so tired that the idea of a bed a mere minute away sounded heavenly. He nodded.

Her face did the soft melting thing again, and she nodded back at him. “I’m going to go grab you a sugary tea and 2 sleeping tablets. I’ll have a colleague bring over a wheelchair- That is non negotiable!” she added at his face.

Then, to his amusement, she turned to Steve, said “You’re next.” and hurried off, shoes squeaking on the floors as she hurried away as if she knew Steve was about to protest.

Steve just huffed and said “the girls here really are something.”

Bruce was too tired to correct the use of terminology. 

He just tipped his head back in the chair, only groaning when he felt Steve and another nurse shift him into a wheelchair and push him through the corridors. Before he knew it he was downing the two tablets pushed into his hand and chugging the tea in 5 gulps. He pulled his legs up onto the bed, soft enough to be comfortable, but not as soft as the one at the Tower. It was nice, he could hear the steady beeping of monitors and people talking lowly. Most people would have found it frustrating, but as Bruce drifted off he knew that Tony was only a few doors away, that he wasn’t abandoning his injured friend.

It would be hours later when Bruce realized it takes an hour for sleeping tablets to kick in. And they don’t usually taste like mints. 

SHIELD Medical Center, Intensive Care Unit, Relatives Room, 2012, Steve’s POV

Steve watched Bruce collapse on the bed with a heavy  heart. Despite what he’d just said to Bruce he was finding it hard not to look at his teams falling apart at the seams and take responsibility. What was he doing wrong? 

He tried to push thoughts of Bruce who was now sleeping peacefully out of his mind, re-entering Tony’s room. He had no doubt that when Bruce had woken up, or even the second one of his other team members walked through the door, the nurse from before would arrive to drag him out, possibly by the ear. He couldn't really argue either, he had wholeheartedly agreed with the decision to put Bruce to bed - he looked near death, but he doubted he really looked much better. He knew for a fact he didn’t smell better. So he didn’t know how much time he had to spend with Tony before he was going to be forced out again, and he’d already been away for long enough.

He let out a sigh of relief when he saw Tony looking the same as before, chest still rising noticeably and the heart monitor painting the pattern of his heart across the screen, reassuringly repetitive. He sank into his usual seat, trapping Tony’s cold fingers with his own. He didn’t know how long he had sat there, just warming Tony’s hands (that seemed to stay cold no matter how many blankets Steve begged off the nurses) before the door slid open. He straightened up in surprise, already preparing to bargain for 5 more minutes, but relaxed at the sight of the nervous nursing student from before- Katie, he realized, looking at her name tag.

“Hi.” he said awkwardly, all too aware that last time she saw him he’d been puking, and also wearing pretty much the same clothes. 

At least she seemed just as awkward. 

“Uh hi Mr Rogers, uh Captain even, Sir?” she smiled awkwardly, the hospital lights reflecting off her braces. She really didn’t look old enough to be here, but Steve supposed that was why she was still a student.

She straightened her dress anxiously, thrusting a wad of papers towards him.

He took them hesitantly, wondering if she had made a mistake.

She spun around, closing the door behind her. She sat down in the chair next to him, and seemed to relax as she set her eyes on the paperwork.

“Ok, first of all, can I call you Mr Rogers?”

“Steve would be fine?” he offered.

“Alright.. Steve,” she said, fumbling on the name, and Steve could see a small smile forming at the corners of her mouth. Nice to know he hadn’t lost his star appeal among all SHIELD agents, even ones he had almost puked on.

“I have some paperwork here with me, Dr Whiskin should have gone through most of it with you, I’m just here to help you with signing as you and Miss Potts are medical proxies and Miss Potts isn’t stateside so she’s deferred to you.”

Steve just nodded, grabbing a pen from Tony’s bedside.

“Ok, so can you please sign here, and this one, and this one…”

—

After what felt like hundreds of signatures and a phantom wrist cramp, Steve finally revealed the blue of the clipboard with relief. It was short lived however as Katie piped up.

“Sorry Steve, just one more thing.” 

He desperately resisted the urge to childishly refuse, Tony had entrusted him with this job and he wasn’t going to throw it away. 

“Ok, I assume Whiskin ran through Tony’s catheter with you?”

His face must have betrayed his confusion, which quickly deepened as she ducked her head down and a giggle emerged from below her hair. It quickly increased, her shoulders shaking with repressed laughs and Steve couldn’t help it - his own lips twitch upwards, even not knowing what was so funny. After a minute or so she lifted her head up, brushing her hair behind her ear sheepishly.

“God I’m so sorry- so unprofessional really. Whiskin doesn’t like bodily fluids, we specifically told him about Tony’s catheter but he must have just ignored it. Trust him to leave it for the nurses.” she rolled her eyes good naturedly.

Steve smiled, bemused “He doesn’t like bodily fluids?? He’s a doctor??” 

“Ugh I know, don’t. And he doesn’t mind blood or puke or anything, just the ah… more sensitive stuff?”

Steve felt himself blush slightly, for what he didn’t really understand.

Thankfully she took sympathy on him, explaining what she meant.

“Ok so when we took in Mr Stark we put in a catheter, a tube which goes up his penis and drains his bladder, but we didn’t have time to put in a temporary colostomy bag with everything going on as it’s quite invasive. A colostomy bag deals with um… everything else.” she said, embarrassment clearly getting the best of her. Steve couldn’t fault her, he had openly flinched at the explanation of the catheter and could feel the warmth in his face. It felt very disrespectful, to be talking about Tony’s most private functions while he was at his most vulnerable. He understood it had to be done but he didn’t have to enjoy it, and he wasn’t capable of preventing the blush from spreading down his neck.

“As Mr Stark is a Little I’d like your permission to keep him in diapers from now on. To be honest we’d be considering it now even if he wasn’t a Little, catheters and ostomy bags can introduce bacteria, and with Mr Stark’s weakened immune system that could be quite dangerous. Aside from that, it’s this or giving him an ostomy bag because we’re going to start tube feeding him now, and Mr Stark- well we’ve been lucky so far that we haven’t changed any sheets, but that won’t last any longer. And I have to say, a surgery to put the bag in, even though it’s minor, isn't what Mr Stark needs right now.”

It felt wrong for Steve to be making this decision for Tony, but he nodded anyway, it made the most sense when explained. He doubted Tony would agree when he woke up, he always seemed so proud.

Steve looked back down at Tony’s limp body, guilt flooding him and making it hard to breathe. He shouldn’t be making these decisions. Tony should be up and about, complaining copiously and making inappropriate jokes. After everything he had done did Steve really have the right to see Tony this way? To make choices about his body that he knew Tony would disagree with?

He looked away, swallowing.

The nurse- Katie, smiled at him gently. “I would have made the same decision.” she offered.

Steve tried to smile back, but it felt fluid on his face, slipping down and falling into his clasped hands.

“Alright then, just sign this sheet so we can remove the catheter and- oh! Can I grab permission to perform a classification test?”

At his incredulous look she hurried to continue.

“I know that we all know what the designation is but it would be helpful to get an age range.”

Steve thought about it for a second. 

“Yes.”

He signed the sheet, selfishly. Tony would not want this. Tony’s actions had made it very clear he wanted as little evidence of this as possible but Steve… Steve had to know. He had to know how badly he had failed. He had to know what was going on. 

Katie collected the papers, stacking them into one pile on the chair.

“Alright, I’m just going to grab my colleague to oversee the procedures.”

—

Steve was startled out of his half asleep stupor by a whirlwind of aprons, gloves and equipment bursting through the door into the room.

“You, Mister, are coming with me the second this is over.”

A short and clean fingernail pointed right at his nose, and Steve followed it up to the nurse from before who had practically carried Bruce into bed with frustration. So, she was the supervisor.

He quickly took in the other new occupants: the student, a nurse with a batman stethoscope around his neck who he didn’t recognise and of course bed-lady who’s name appeared to be Chloe.

“Alright guys!” bed-Chloe clapped her hands, nearly knocking over the IV stand. It really wasn’t a very big room and 5 people including Tony was stretching it’s capacity. 

“Most complex first, Katie please keep an eye on the vitals.” 

Katie hurried over to the screen displaying all of Tony’s information, flipping a switch that reintroduced the beeping of Tony’s heartbeat into the room. Steve watched curiously as she moved about with familiarity, all the awkwardness melting away in the face of a job to be done. 

The curiosity quickly melted into horror as Chloe began threading a tube down the one already threading from Tony’s mouth. She flicked a button and the tube began spitting out green/brown lumps into a bowl. She then put a device that reminded him of the one they used at the dentists (2010s dentists, Steve wasn’t totally sure what a dentist was back in the 1940s), into Tony’s mouth alongside the breathing tube, and a suction noise started up again. Steve couldn’t look away, morbid curiosity holding his gaze, which was why he caught the exact moment Chloe turned the machine that was breathing for Tony off . 

He let out a cut off yell as the rising and falling of Tony’s chest stopped, his torso remaining completely still. Steve pushed himself out of the chair, stumbling towards the machine, heart in his mouth because Tony was, Tony was-

“Steve! Steve.” Katie said firmly, gripping his shoulders. “Stop, stop, it’s fine ok, it’s fine.”

Steve’s heart was pummelling his rib cage, his mouth hanging open as he gasped in shock, but he only weakly tried to push her off.

“It’s called a spontaneous breathing trial. He is ok. Do you understand.”

Steve didn’t really understand, but allowed himself to be pushed on shaky legs back into the seat.

“Time!” one of the nurses called, presumably Chloe based on the pitch. 

“35!” Katie called back.

Steve could hear the rustling of fabric and a frustratedly muttered “come on Stark.”, but the shock of Tony not breathing stuck him to the chair like glue.

And then he heard a gasp, and with it he let his own breath out.

“Perfect.” Chloe said, sounding smug with satisfaction.

Steve focussed his eyes on Tony, who’s chest was moving up and down rhythmically, but naturally, far more naturally than with the ventilator. The little dips and catches were soothing, and Steve allowed himself to revel in the relief of the pattern of it, even marred by the wheezes that suggested something wasn’t quite right.

He was only knocked out of his stupor when Chloe placed a hand on his shoulder, smoothing down Tony’s bed sheets with the other hand.

“There” she said softly “doesn’t that look better.”

And it did. With all the tubes removed from his face and the blankets covering the others, Tony almost looked like he was asleep, a slight color to his face as his mouth hung sleep slack. Steve leaned in to smooth a stray strand of hair that had fallen over his eyes, and couldn’t help but stare at Tony’s face, at how peaceful he looked. He was struck with the urge to kiss his forehead, and at the thought pulled back quickly, chastising himself. Tony was not asleep, he was unconscious. And he was unconscious because of Steve, what kind of scumbag was he, taking advantage like that. 

Katie approached him at the head of the bed, holding yet another thin translucent tube.

“Ok, this is going to go through Tony’s nose and down his throat alright? It can look quite disturbing but I promise you Tony won’t feel anything, we’ve just attached the sedative drip.”

Sure enough, when Steve looked to his left he saw a new bag hanging from the IV stand. He wondered at how he had become so distracted with Tony that he missed it being hung right next to him, and stayed staring at it resolutely when he heard the ugly choking noises Tony started making as the tube was inserted, resisting the impulse to whip his head around to check they weren’t hurting him. Soon enough, the noises died out, and Steve turned back to face Tony. Another tube was now leading out of his nose and to a bag full of thick, milky looking liquid, and an oxygen mask had been strapped around his face, but to Steve he still looked better than when the ventilator had practically obscured his face completely. At least now he could stroke Tony’s hair. 

“Alright, we’re going to take out the catheter now.” Batman-nurse asserted, and Steve felt a blush rise up his face, his legs inching closer together. He stayed focussed on Tony’s face, rubbing his hands through his hair, untangling the knots developed from the battle or the extended lying down, ignoring all the movement down at the bottom of the bed.

“Ok, all done” said Batman, and Steve couldn’t repress another wince at the size of the tube.

Batman walked over the waste bin, pushing the tube inside, before walking over to Tony’s bedside table and picking up the bloodwork clipboard, scribbling something on his gloves and delving into a nearby drawer.

Katie clearly noticed his confusion-suspicion, and walked over, whispering “he’s a Paisiatric nurse - specializes in Littles. They’re quite rare really, we had to bring him in from another floor.”

Well, he supposed that explained the batman stethoscope.

Batman injected 2 vials into Tony’s second cannula on the hand Steve wasn’t fiercely gripping, flushed it with what Steve assumed was more water and then pulled a vial of blood. He added a clear liquid to the blood and swirled it until the red gave way to blue. He smiled and stepped back towards Tony, pulling another vial of blood. He held that one up towards Steve. “Mr Stark’s hormone levels are stabilizing, I’m going to send this vial off to the lab for the classification test, we should get results in around 2 hours.”

Steve nodded tiredly in response.

“Thanks Jaheed, you can just leave the other stuff with Katie.” Chloe said, collecting the waste lying on the sides and dumping it in the bin along with her gloves as she buzzed out the door.

“I’m sure he’ll get better soon.” Batman-Jaheed said, setting a pile of fabrics down on the side.

“Thank you.” Steve responded, attempting another smile that seemed to slide off his face.

He left, shutting the door,and Katie walked over to lock it with a  muted beep from her card.

She began picking up items from the pile left by Batman-Jaheed, chatting conversationally as she separated them.

“Chloe’s such a whirlwind honestly, I imagine she’ll be in here nagging you to get some rest when I leave,” she joked, humor evident in her tone.

“And she doesn’t just do it with you, you know! It’s the nurses too! Oh dear you don’t half look tired this and here take my sandwhich that.” she said, voice filled with mock frustration.

She continued chatting to an unengaged Steve about this and that, the latest going ons in the nurses break room, but Steve’s eyes were focussed on the puffy looking diaper she was strapping around Tony’s waist with practiced hands, smoothing down the tapes and checking the tightness with two fingers.

“There, all done!” she proclaimed, picking up the next item from the side.

“Do you think you could help me with this? I’d normally have Chloe help but honestly you’re stronger and I can imagine Mr Stark would prefer your help.” she said slightly sheepishly, holding up a fleecy pastel blue onesie. 

Steve nodded mutely, despite his silent disagreement that Tony would want him near him in any context, surprised at the outfit change.

“If you could just, yeah right there.” she instructed, moving his hands before seemingly realizing what she was doing and moving back, hands covering her flushed face. “Oh I am so sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

“No, no, it’s ok, let’s just get Tony in this,” he said, looking fondly at the man propped up in the crook of his arm. 

“Yes, yep, of course.” She hurriedly responded, and they worked together threading Tony’s arms through the onesie and snapping the crotch shut over the diaper, leaving only the smallest bit of white fabric poking out from the blue. They moved back to look at their work and Katie smiled, satisfied..

“You’re a natural.” she smiled, and Steve felt himself blushing again, ignoring the warm feeling that wasn’t just flush in his face and stomach.

She walked over to the door, unlocking it.

“Chlo!!” she called into the hallway, and Steve was so distracted by staring affectionately at Tony, looking cozy and safe and undeniably small in the center of the bed he didn’t even realize what that meant for him until she was storming into the room, arms crossed. She softened when she saw Tony spread out on the bed though, dropping her arms and her expression smoothing out into something almost maternal.

“Poor baby.” she whispered under her breath, so quiet Steve was certain he wasn’t meant to hear it. Then, much louder she said “Right, lets get him covered up, no use in catching a chill.” And then she was in motion again, pulling the blankets over him, with a much thicker knitted one following the pale blue thin staple blankets of hospitals. Steve turned to her, a question in his eyes.

“They’re knitted by the older ladies for the little ones, he’s got these as well,” she gestured to the side, where Steve could now see a pacifier, a mini rattle and a tiny little bear that looked fluffy enough that Steve felt the urge to lift it and smooth the fur against his face.

“They’re donated, given to every Little that comes in to stay for longer than 2 days” she shrugged, “if he doesn’t like or want them you can just drop them back into one of the boxes, they’ll go to someone else. Obviously we have a lot of other equipment, there’s a play therapist somewhere that can get you toys and there’s all the bottles and things, but this is just a starting thing that every Little gets.”

“It’s nice.” Steve said hoarsely, still trying to reconcile the idea of ‘Tony Stark’ and ‘play therapist’ in the same context while steadfastly ignoring the affection generated by the idea of Tony curled around the little bear.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “it is.”

“Anyways, don’t think you’re getting out of what we discussed before. Your friend is still conked out, but I’ve practically got a parade of people waiting out in the corridor. And don’t be thinking of using Mr Stark as an excuse cause he’s looking perfectly snug to me.”

They both turned to look at Tony, surrounded by blankets in a fleecy onesie, breathing steadily, a slight color beginning to soften his gaunt features. Steve could feel himself melting slightly, tearing his tender gaze away to meet Chloe’s sympathetic eyes.

“I understand, really I do, he’s a sweetheart, but you need to rest too. He’s sedated, he’s not gonna wake up without you.”

Steve wasn’t quite sure what she was understanding, but he knew he couldn’t keep going much longer. He may have super soldier stamina but he also had a super soldier metabolism which had not been receiving what it needed to for over 50 hours now. He acquiesced, dipping his head, and she turned to open the door.

Clint immediately came barreling in, nearly knocking Steve off his feet with the speed at which he ran onwards Tony’s bed, immediately throwing himself on top of Tony with a sob.

Only Steve picked up on the faint hissing noise that immediately followed, and he sighed at the idea of having to go through the ordeal of changing Tony again already.

Or at least he thought only he picked up on it, but Coulson gave him a sharp look, mouthing “Did he just…” behind Clint’s back. Steve leaned in, muttering “I’ll explain later.” in his ear, to which Phil nodded. “I’m sorry, it looks like you just got him changed, but I couldn’t stop Clint, he’s been all over the place all day.”

“I can’t blame him, I think we all have and we’re not the ones with the headspace of a 5 year old.”

They both turned to look at Clint, folded over Tony’s waist. He was nowhere near any of the wires, and both he and Phil seemed disinclined to attempt to remove him. Their line of sight meant that Phil was also staring at Tony too, and his face softened, an effect that Steve was noticing on more and more people when they looked at Tony.

“But I guess Tony’s got that headspace too. I want to apologize, Steve I should have noticed, or held back Clint better or-”

“Don’t Phil, we’re all thinking that. It’s not going to help any of us right now, and besides, I’m not really the person to apologize to. I would argue I did worse.”

A moment passed in silence, both of them staring at the two Littles on the bed, trying to sort through their thoughts.

“Never thought I’d say it but he’s almost sweet like this really, isn’t he.”

Steve didn’t have time to respond to that, not that he knew how to anyway, because Chloe had grabbed him by the arm and begun forcefully dragging him out the room. He allowed her, drained from the past days, only resisting when they passed Natasha at the door frame. She patted his arm, nodding over to where Bruce was sleeping. He blinked back lethargically in recognition, inclining his head. They moved out, Natasha moved in, and the last thing Steve saw as he was led away was Natasha taking his place, hesitantly reaching a hand out towards Tony’s as Clint rubbed at his eye with one balled fist and pushed the teddy bear under Tony’s arm with the other.

He allowed his bone tired feet to be pulled into a cafeteria, consuming 3 burgers in 5 minutes under Chloe’s stern eye, before being dragged back up to Tony’s floor and into the relatives room. Bruce was still asleep on the foldable bed, unmoving, and Steve felt his eyelids being pulled down sympathetically, like the weight of the responsibility and the day itself was clinging onto his lashes as he strained to keep his eyes open.

“Come on big boy.” Chloe murmured “In you get.”

She twisted and pushed him up onto the next pull out bed, striding out of the room with an unyielding “Don’t even think about leaving.”

Steve lied back on the bed, stared at the ceiling, and thought about Tony. But the more he focussed on his guilt, the more plans to fix it started cropping up in his mind. Steve had always been a fix-it man. And if that meant he fell asleep with vague dreams of Tony curled up next to him sleeping, not unconscious playing out behind his eyelids, well. Steve had time to feel guilty about that later, and no one else had to know about it.  

Chapter Text

“What if I told you

I feel like I know you?

But we never met

And here, everyone knows you're the way to my heart

Hear so many stories of you at the bar

Most times, alone, and some, looking your worst

But never not sweet to the trust funds and punishers”

• Punisher by Phoebe Bridgers

SHIELD Medical Center, 2012, Tony’s POV

When Tony recognised light flickering at his eyelids, his immediate response was to pull his head away from whatever was shining at him.

The small movement revealed that he felt… a lot. Stuff taped to his face, unfamiliar fabric catching on scrapes, and a tube running uncomfortably through his nose, bumping at his nostril with every inhale and exhale being the first. Everything felt slightly hazy, his hearing of a beeping behind him muffled in a way that just screamed of narcotics. That in turn made him aware of the fact that he had no idea where he was, why he had been drugged, and the fact that he was very fucking anxious in a frustratingly dulled way. He stiffened up, only to realize that he hurt. Quite significantly. His muscles ached and there was a point on his head that throbbed and he had definitely been kidnapped again-

He shot bolt upright at that, panting as his eyes wildly scanned the room, the beeping behind him escalating. He didn’t have much time to process anything before his eyes were widening at the easily recognisable sensation of acid traveling up his throat. 

His mouth opened automatically, foul tasting beige liquid tinged red spilling out onto the bed, that he could now undeniably identify as a hospital one, despite it being adorned with an oddly fluffy blanket. 

He coughed weakly as the last of the vomit pooled on the sheets, soaking through the thin sheet over his lap and dampening his legs. He felt his lip beginning to tremble, the pain and confusion overwhelming him. 

That was when a hand grasped his arm and turned him slightly. To say Captain America was the last thing he expected to see was the understatement of the century. But moving to face him had unearthed a much, much bigger problem. Tony was sitting on what was definitely a diaper. A wet diaper. He looked down at the bed slowly, where he could see the outline of his legs through the sick soaked translucent sheet, and therefore the puffy edges of the once white diaper he was wearing exposed from the snap crotch of the onesie he was wearing. He looked back up at Captain America, a sick sense of dread creeping through him. He was in a diaper. In a onesie. He felt small, positively tiny, shrinking into the expanse of white hospital room. His eyes met blue ones staring back at him, and all at once the anxiety and horror of the situation hit him like a freight train. Before he knew it, ugly, wailing sobs were forcing up his throat as he choked on snot and tears, screaming and screaming, his heart racing in his chest as he flung his head around wildly, panicked fists gripping and pulling at the tubes taped to his face, mind in absolute meltdown at the onslaught of fear. It was an endless moment of panicked screaming and sobs that he couldn’t stop despite his heaving chest before he felt something warm wrap around his shoulders heavily, restraining his arms. He just screamed still, incapable of processing anything about where he was in any other way. The emotion came pouring out of him, hoarse screams dissolving into more deep, soul wrenching sobbing, hand flailing near his face but lacking the reach with the restraining or the fine motor control to properly escape or remove the stuff on him. Then there were voices everywhere and Tony still. Couldn’t. Stop. Crying. 

He realized his eyes were screwed shut, and gathered enough cognizance to force them open, tears blurring the room. Movement spread all around him, and his useless eyes couldn’t track any of it. He folded himself in half with the next wail, new distress at how many people were witnessing this rolling through his chest. 

Then he felt a pinprick in his leg, and he startled, eyes wide as an almost inhuman screech escaped his throat, tears pouring down his face and soaking his neck and the onesie-

Onesie.

-he was wearing. His sobs decreased in intensity as he took slower breaths, his eyes fluttering and jaw going slack. His upper body crumbled into the warmth holding him still, and he thought it was funny really, that this was the nicest he had felt since he woke up, sleepy and still and cradled. And he was definitely passing out during it, because the next time he tried to open his eyes he found he couldn’t. And then…

Darkness. 

SHIELD Medical Center, 2012, Steve’s POV

“Poor little lamb.” Chloe said, staring sympathetically at Tony’s sleeping form, curled up with a blanket draped around his shoulders, tear tracks marring the otherwise adorable scene. Steve took a deep, shuddering breath in response, arms wrapped protectively around Tony’s sleep-slack body, still rocking him gently. Tony’s thumb found its way into his mouth as he curled into Steve, snuffling slightly. Steve relaxed his tight muscles as the cloying scent of little in distress slowly cleared from the room.

“This is going to be really difficult isn’t it.” He said to Chloe, not looking up from Tony’s face.

She hesitated, and he brushed his thumb against Tony’s cheek, wiping away the stray tears.

“Yes.” Chloe said. “Yes, it is.”

“He’ll do better when he’s out of hospital. If he gets out of hospital.”

Steve looked down at Tony, his fluffy brown hair falling over eyes he knew to be a similar color. He thought about the stunted but well intentioned gestures from Tony, and the team events he’d always wanted him to attend. He liked Tony. Despite everything, because of everything. He didn’t just want him a part of the team because of this, he’d always wanted him as part of the team.

Holding him like this, it- it filled a hole in Steve. Tony needed to be safe, and looked after, and the hospital was no place for a little.

“Could you get me the temporary caregiver papers please Chloe?” He murmured, and she clasped on the shoulder lightly, humming in confirmation.

-0-

The next week passed unbearably slowly. Tony woke up every now and again, but mostly just slept the days away, his body apparently working to repair the years of damage. There were x rays and ultrasounds semi consistently, frequent blood tests that they made sure to sedate Tony for. Tony’s beard was falling out now he was withdrawing from the suppressants, which Steve was trying to ignore because it made him feel so desperately bad for Tony it made his heart hurt. The feeding tube remained, but Steve was also given the task of getting bottles of formula into Tony as well.

That was the other thing. Tony hadn’t left headspace even once. That wasn’t to say he wasn’t aware -  he still occasionally babbled about the “venjas”, cried when people got too close to the arc reactor, and was soothed by the team’s presence in a way that spoke of familiarity. Tony’s headspace results were back - infant to toddler. Even younger than Clint.

It was a horrible shock at the time, but given Tony’s behavior in hospital quickly became unsurprising. Tony was borderline non verbal. A very timid kid, he seemed content to just watch everyone else talk and do things around him inquisitively in the moments he was awake. Those moments became more and more frequent during the 9th and 10th days, even smiling at Steve on the 8th, which nearly made him melt in a puddle of caregiver goo. 

And then, on the 11th day, they got the news. It was an unprecedented situation, but as Tony showed no sign of coming out of headspace any time soon, which was what the doctors had predicted, so the team, specifically Steve, legally, had been approved to become temporary caregivers until Tony was in an adult headspace. 

Additionally, they were allowed to take Tony home. With an extensive booklet of instructions on how to continue looking after him, but still. Their team member was coming home.

Steve packed up all the stuff that had gathered in the small room throughout their stay. Tony was sat happily on Phil’s lap, playing groggily with his fingers, continually drooping and waking himself back up. He was due another dose of medications soon, so his valiant attempts at staying awake weren’t going to last much longer. Steve watched on fondly as Tony reached a fist up to rub at his eyes. Tony was wary of all the team, but was absolutely terrified of anyone not on the team. At first he and the rest of the team just thought it was medical staff he was afraid of, but the play therapists and therapy pet handlers, one of whom Tony had actually met before and knew decently well elicited that same terror. The reaction was worrying to say the least. And Tony seemed to be simultaneously more drawn to Steve and more terrified of him than anyone else, a fact that gave Steve a mixed emotional response. When Tony was upset he always reached for Steve first, but always stayed tense while being held by him. It left Steve conflicted on how to continue, because Tony was happier with other people but he didn’t want to reject him when he was making his wishes clear. Plus a horrible selfish part of him wanted a monopoly on Tony time, and having him curled into him felt natural in a way nothing had since the ice. 

Steve sighed, exhausted from all the complicated thoughts and nights of Tony waking up screaming or wet. He collected the various stuffed animals from the bed, squashing them into the overspilling shoulder bag. Finally, he picked up the soft knitted blanket, dropping it on Tony, who giggled sleepily. Batting at it until his face emerged, flushed and so much less skeletal than when they arrived. He reached a hand out to Steve, smiling.

“Ahh, there’s my sweet baby. You vanished!” he said, smiling tiredly at Tony, who leaned into his chest, tucking his thumb into his mouth and giving it a few languid sucks. 

Steve sighed, motioning to Phil, who passed him a Hawkeye pacifier that never failed to make Steve (and Tony) smile.

He quickly swapped out the thumb for the paci, shifting Tony on his hip. Tony whined, but quickly accepted the silicone, eyes dropping on long blinks.

“Alright, let's move.” Steve said to Phil, who nodded, picking up one of the bags.

They opened the door, Steve doing a quick over the shoulder to check that they hadn’t forgotten anything. 

They moved out into the hallway, and Steve smiled when he saw the whole team that had looked after Tony while they were there, waiting with a banner that said bye Tony.

“Hey buddy, look.” He cajoled, pointing. 

Tony sleepily emerged from his blanket cocoon, looking blearily around. He whimpered slightly when he registered all the people, but brightened up when he saw Chloe holding the part of the banner that said Tony. He had grown quite a liking to her, and Steve had to rapidly adjust his grip so Tony wouldn’t fall when he started waving. Excitedly pointing at the sign and then to himself. 

Steve looked at him, surprised. Tony’s age range was way too young to be able to read. He shook the confusion off, Tony was probably just pointing at Chloe.

“Ba ba ba ba ba ba.” Tony said from behind the pacifier, waving at the nurses from his comfortable seat in Steve’s arms.

Steve tried not to coo audibly, the nurses made no such effort and a general chorus of aws made a mexican wave through the hallway.

“Ok, c’mon buddy lets get home alright?” he whispered to Tony, who responded by diving under the blanket again.

“Thank you so much guys. So much.” He called, making sure to make eye contact with each and every person so they’d know he’d mean it. 

“You look after that rascal.” Chloe said, leaning forwards and ruffling roughly where Tony’s head was located. A grumble emerged from the blanket mound and she chuckled.

“Seriously though. He deserves it.” She said, slightly sad, no doubt thinking about when Tony first came in. 

“I will.” Steve said, just as solemnly.

She nodded, and moved back. Phil looked back at Steve, and started walking through the hallway. Steve followed, down the stairs and out through the sheltered back door to avoid any press. The outside air was far colder than the almost stifling warmth of the hospital. Steve carefully manoeuvred Tony and himself into the relative warmth of the car, Clint rapidly scooching over to make room. 

He hesitated on where to place Tony, before settling on strapping the seatbelt over himself and Tony.

God, they didn’t even have a car chair for him.

The car rumbled to a start and pulled out of the hospital car park, and Steve let his head fall back to the headrest with a thud. 

They were actually doing this. They were actually doing this.

At least he got to go home. 

Chapter Text

Natasha was worried about Steve. Worried about all of them. Worried sick, sick of herself, sick of never being a friend and only being a spy.

Not a very good one, apparently. 

God. Tony.

She had suspected , at some points, writing her review, when he showed up late, all the picky little habits he brushed off so well. He was a great actor, that was for sure, but there were some things…

Well. Some things you just couldn't hide.

He was submissive, naturally. Bowed his head when tired, shrunk away when intimidated, avoided eye contact. Unnaturally short for a dom, narrow shoulders. When he postured he never quite met anyone’s eyes. Tiny, picky things really. She’d suspected he was a sub. Privately, it had amused her slightly, in a macabre, mean kind of way. Tony was so desperate to posture off to doms because he didn’t want them to know they had the upper hand, really. 

She didn’t have enough evidence to log it, and really, to her, it wasn’t such a big deal. Tony’s isolation every time he got too prickly, secrecy around his personal quarters in the towers, his badly concealed need of daily routines - he was getting what he needed.

She was wrong. 

And it stung , how obvious it was looking back. How she’d privately smiled at a ‘dom’ rushing around trying to usurp all the actual doms. Definition of topping from the bottom. She had deliberately pushed down the starting sparks of concern as they grew marginally closer, in proximity if nothing else, the vague sense of guilt, or sympathy she felt looking at someone lying about the very core of their being. She had chosen not to care about it, despite the nagging sense that something just wasn’t quite right with Tony Stark, that even if he was receiving some help, a dom service or similar, it couldn’t possibly be enough long term, that his self destructive behavior was indicative of something bigger. She deliberately hadn’t felt bad. It was much easier to feel the smug satisfaction that she had one over him, rather than the other way round. She’d laughed, as Tony tried desperately to conceal who he actually was, as a struggling little spiraled lower and lower until he physically couldn’t handle what was being thrown at him.

Natasha had to re-evaluate everything she had ever thought about Tony Stark, and she didn’t like the conclusions she was reaching.

Tony wasn’t arrogant because he wanted to prove to others how above them he was, he was arrogant because he was afraid, he wasn’t socially bizarre deliberately, he was drugged to the gills on illegal suppresants and his hormone levels were enough to make a seasoned doctor cry, he wasn’t a grown man, a civilian, who was tortured in a desert. Suddenly, whenever she thought of him, she thought of a scared little boy, alone in Afghanistan, a boy having his pacemaker ripped out by the closest thing to a caregiver he had, a boy, lashing out at everything he could so no one would notice what he never wanted anyone to notice. 

And it had worked. She’d had to rethink everything, look at how much her personality reports used designation as a building block.

Her deft fingers injecting Tony in the neck, and his sad look of resigned betrayal, her smirk, how satisfying it was to bring down the male, rich dom who had everything.

God, Tony.

Everything about him painted a picture of a traumatized little, with severe deficits from avoiding headspace, pushing away everyone as much as possible. The way he acted in the hospital only cemented just how badly she had fucked up. His age range was a final kick in the teeth.

Baby, toddler at most. Younger than Clint. Too young to legally be released from the hospital of his own accord, too young to even be allowed out with a nursery contract. Legally, Tony Stark was too young to be responsible for his own actions, or to be safe alone.

And she couldn’t even disagree with it. The guidelines had always bothered her, looking at Clint, who was so independent, yet constrained to a caregiver his whole life. But look at Tony. In a hospital bed, malnourished, dehydrated, pneumonia left untreated, chronic health conditions unaddressed, deficient in vitamins, sleep deprived. He couldn’t be left alone, truly, even in adult headspace, he wasn’t safe for himself.

It threw “self destructive” into a whole new, distressing light. 

One of the things about the Red Room was that no matter what they wanted, they couldn’t actually stop you from feeling emotions. Biologically impossible. But they could do the next best thing. Natasha didn’t so much feel emotions as she thought them.

So her course of action was to throw herself wholeheartedly into research. Tony’s case was unprecedented, there was little to no legal backing on how they would proceed, but she would be bringing him back to the Tower if she had to main every professional that stood in her way. 

She felt guilty. She knew she felt guilty because she had contributed to the downward spiral that ended with Tony in a hospital bed, she felt guilty because she had misinterpreted his behavior.

She could fix that.

She had felt a creeping sense of shame when she called Nick Fury, leaning against the hospital wall, standing vigil over Steve’s hunched over form, watching him carefully through the little window in the door of the room that Tony had only just been maneuvered into.

“We need to talk.” she said as the click indicated the call going through sounded into the hallway.

“I don’t suppose this would have anything to do with all of my Avengers disappearing with Tony Stark in the past half hour?” Fury questioned dryly.

“He’s not a narcissist.” She said, eyes sticking uncomfortably to Tony’s pale, semi-emaciated form.

“Oh?” Nick said, decidedly unimpressed.

“He’s a little.” She said, pointedly not thinking about how this was another betrayal upon many in and as of itself.

Silence greeted her through the line.

“He’s small.” She confessed, quieter.

“...well.” Fury eventually muttered. “Fuck.”

She closed her eyes, exhaling. The realization that part of her had really been hoping that Nick had known this whole time, that she was only left out of the loop, that someone, anyone knew and had been looking out for this kid washed over her in a sickening wave.

“How small.” Fury demanded.

“The tests haven’t been sent off.” She said neutrally.

Then, with slightly more emotion, “he’s not going to be allowed out without contracts.” she admitted quietly. It didn’t take a genius to work out after Tony’s meltdown that the results weren’t going to be anywhere near old enough for him to be independent. She would bet money he was younger than Clint.

A litany of hushed swear words rang down the line in response.

She looked back over to Steve, head resting as if in prayer on the bed.

“That young?” Fury questioned, he sounded like her, like he didn’t want this to be real, like he couldn’t quite stay objective.

“He wet himself.” She said, the events that brought them here playing out in front of her eyes, and wasn’t that damning enough? “He’s- he’s bad, they’ve got him on a lot of medication. He collapsed, crying. The doctors think it’s been a while. Years, maybe.”

More swearing.

“He’s in bad shape Fury, this is going to take a while to sort out, the physical recovery alone…”

“I’ll sort everything.” Nick said, steel in his voice.

She nodded despite his inability to see her, breathing out a near silent sigh of relief and allowing more of her weight to lean into the wall.

“And Natasha?” He said. He never used her first name. “Look out for him.”

The line went dead.

And so she was left, with her guilt and the sick little boy in the bed and the endless parade of wan, shame ridden teammates with ever growing eyebags.

She couldn’t even fault them, because every time she stopped to breathe, stopped planning and rationalizing and fixing things practically, she felt the sickening void in her throat grow bigger and bigger.

A good person’s first instinct would have been to apologize to Tony, look after him.

Natasha had never claimed to be a good person.

Within a day of her finding out, the factory, distributor and ringleader of the suppressants Tony had been taking were taken down with clinical efficiency. She was aware that there would be many littles left behind in the wake of her violence, without suppressants, and she wanted, truly wanted to feel as though she had done something wrong. But she didn’t. Anyone she left stranded would be picked up, as they should have been years ago. No one should end up where Tony had, and no matter what people thought, they had progressed, no little that needed help would be left without it. It was only attitudes that needed adjusting.

She was a dom, and a caregiver. It was a mix that had been mocked in the Red Room, and historically sneered at. 

But Hell hath no fury like a caregiver smited, and no caregiver was more comfortable with inflicting the appropriate punishments than a dom. 

The blood left on her hands was righteous, and she refused to attempt to feel guilty over it. 

She had enough of that emotion anyhow. 

—

And then they’d moved back into the Tower. 

It was a lot, going back in, having to work out everything they were going to have to change for Tony. And that was when the buying started. Cribs, diapers, diaper supplies, bottles, sippy cups, training pants, little clothes. 

None of Clint’s stuff even came close to working for Tony. All of it was too big, both age wise and physically - despite his stay in hospital Tony was still disturbingly skinny, malnourished, almost. 

She sighed, leaning back into the couch finally, allowing her mind to stop running over and over all the supplies they needed. They were woefully unprepared. She tipped her head back against the couch, letting her eyes shut for a moment. 

She was pulled out of her moment of peace, could have been 5 or 50 minutes later, by an insistent tugging on her pants. Groaning, she pried her eyelids open, turning to look at the offender. 

Huge hazel eyes stared back at her, a fist grasped in her pants tightly, mirth playing out on the little’s face. Natasha blinked, dumbfounded. 

Tony grinned impishly behind the light blue hospital issued pacifier obscuring most of his face, tugging on her pant legs again. 

Natasha couldn’t help herself, she had never seen Tony even smile really, he was altogether a serious kid. He seemed too injured , his story too tragic for him to act like any other little. Her eyes widened comically at the sight in front of her. 

Tony found this funny, clearly, tugging on her pants again, a rolling giggle emerging from behind the pacifier, eyes bright with humor. 

She couldn’t help but smile at the childlike sound, one eyebrow raising at the chuckling little. 

Tony found this absolutely hilarious, the giggles dissolving into delirious laughter as he rolled backwards, cheeks ruddy with the effort, legs akimbo in the air as he tugged on her pants still. 

She leaned down, smirking, trying to get him upright again. 

“C’mon Tony.” She chided, devoid of any reprimand. He flinched away from her hands, and for a horrible moment she froze, eyeing her own hands cautiously, but then she realized he was still shaking with the effort of the full body chuckles, that he was shying away. 

He thought he was being tickled.

A genuine smile broke out on her face, and she pounced, scooping up a shrieking Tony, tipping him upside down and spinning him the right way up again, fingers teasing up his side, careful of the still injured ribs. 

“Someone’s giggly.” She teased, turning him to face her.

The pacifier had slipped out of his mouth at some point during the scuffle, hanging from Steve’s oversized shirt that Tony was currently swimming in. 

It dampened her mood somewhat. When Tony was bundled up in onesies with the pacifier obscuring his face it was a bit easier to think of him as just any other little. With the pacifier out, the unnatural facial hair was revealed - it was a significant point of cognitive dissonance, considering littles were incapable of growing any body hair, let alone a full goatee and mustache. 

Now she was properly paying attention to him she could hear the slight wheeze in his breaths as well. 

The slightly off elements of this kid just didn’t stop coming, 

Sighing, she scooped Tony up, grunting a bit from the exertion. She was an alpha-caregiver, which gave her somewhat enhanced strength, but Tony was still slightly taller than her and had some muscle on him despite the malnourishment, she could hold him for a while, much longer than Clint, but that wasn’t to say it was completely effortless. 

She tucked her forearm under his ass, pushing his shoulders over hers, encouraging him to tuck his head into the junction between her neck and shoulders. 

He eventually leaned over, ramming his nose into her neck, hitching snuffles pushed into her skin. 

She softened slightly at the sleepy baby noises, instinctively swaying back and forth.

She was going to have to get better at babying Tony even when she could see his face, see that it was him, but it was (ironically) baby steps.

“Come on,” she said wearily, “Let’s find Steve. I think it’s time for your medication, huh?” She murmured, running a soothing hand up and down Tony’s back.

She was pretty sure she knew where Steve was and what he was doing considering literally the only way Tony ended up being unsupervised was if Steve was unconscious.

That, combined with the grumbling snores that were just audible from one of the 2 bedrooms on the common floor and the fact that everyone else had passed out the second they got back from the hospital from the exhaustion and yeah. She sensed Tony would be curling up next to Steve in a couple minutes, with her watching on. 

She was always watching on. 

Chapter Text

"Never thought that you would be
Standing here so close to me
There's so much I feel that I should say
But words can wait until some other day

Chapter Text

When Natasha wandered into Coulson’s bedroom to check on Tony, she was not actually expecting to find anything. Maybe it was her caregiver side wanting to make sure he was ok, maybe it was her alpha side being protective over littles she viewed as her pack, whatever it was, something had compelled her to go in. He had been moved into the bigger bed when Clint had woken and decided he would not be playing anywhere but the nursery. She had raised an eyebrow when Coulson had given in almost immediately; he was usually much more stern in his caregiving. She suspected the change in attitude was largely due to the less than kind glares Clint was sending in Tony’s direction, ignorant to the fact that they had been cuddling only 10 minutes ago. His arms wrapped possessively around Coulson when he went to move Tony certainly told a story. 

Coulson had glowered at her when she stifled a laugh, but it was fun to rile him up a bit, so she didn’t take much notice. 

They had put Tony in the new bed with little fuss, he merely tossed his head once and then rolled over, eyes flickering from his dreams. 

She had raised a questioning eyebrow at his attire, but Coulson had only shook his head exhaustedly, and she had left it, moving on to construct a barrier of pillows along the boundary of the bed, but she’d not been the most convinced by its efficacy. 

Maybe that was what had brought her into the room, only to end up face to face with a very awake Tony.

He was fiddling with his dragon, making the toy bound across the covers, but when he noticed her he blinked at her owlishly, adorning a truly impressive case of bed hair. 

Then his face broke into a toothy smile and he reached out for her, nearly tipping onto his face in the process. 

She wouldn’t say she rushed over, but after her hesitation, she walked faster than she would have usually over to him, picking him up and automatically checking his diaper with one hand. 

It was still dry, which made her frown. Tony had been out for nearly two hours, she would have expected he needed a change by now. Could he be dehydrated? 

Immediately, her instincts nagged at her to go make him a bottle, but now Tony was in her arms, the familiar feelings of trepidation and what she refused to label as fear were rolling through her in waves. 

As they had thought, Clint had grown tired of being cooped in the nursery after only 30 minutes, so he and Coulson had relocated to the common floor a while ago, meaning they were no longer around for her to put Tony into the hands of. 

Fortunately, she wasn’t left to stew for very long, as the elevators announced a new arrival. 

She walked out of the bedroom, swaying Tony on her hip slightly. 

When she reached the sitting room, she saw Bruce looking around the abandoned space bemusedly, the expression only deepening when he spotted Tony in duck form. He scrunched his eyebrows, tilting his head in question, but much like Coulson, she simply gave a quick shake of her head. 

“Hey Natasha,” he said when she grew close enough “I just came to check in on things.” 

Natasha sighed in relief mentally. 

“Things are going alright,” she said outwardly, walking closer to Bruce. 

“He’s just had a nap, and I think it’s time for him to head down to the med wing.” She said, lying smoothly and deftly passing Tony onto Bruce. 

Bruce looked taken off guard, resisting for a second, but she pressed insistently, and he reluctantly took Tony into his own arms. 

Tony looked between their faces curiously, gnawing on the wing of his dragon. 

Natasha ignored how her arms hung awkwardly at her side, devoid of weight. 

“Really?” Bruce questioned, brows furrowed. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” she replied, “they just wanted to check up on him today.” 

That wasn’t really true, the doctors had suggested a check up would be good at some point to check on Tony’s progress, but it wasn't strictly mandatory, and it wasn’t pre-scheduled. 

“I figured you could take him down, seeing as you could do a few of the tests yourself y’know, upset him less.” It was a good excuse, especially thought up on the fly. 

Bruce looked at her skeptically though, so maybe not as good as she thought. They had grown to know each other relatively well through sharing a team and a living space. It made her uncomfortable. 

She shifted on her feet, grateful Bruce wasn’t trained to spot the action. 

“Alright, I guess.” He said, though she didn’t miss the look of apprehension he gave Tony. “I can take him down.”

“Cool.” Natasha said, turning on her heel and getting in the elevator. 

“Wait, Nat-” Bruce said, face furrowed. 

The doors shut before he could continue. 

Bruce stared slightly dumbfounded at the silver doors of the elevator, now descending, presumably to her own floor, but possibly to the common room seeing as that was almost definitely where Coulson and Clint were. 

“Ok,” he said after a moment, looking down at his friend tucked into his arms. “Guess it’s just me and you, buddy.”

Tony had remained remarkably complacent all throughout Bruce’s poking and prodding, even giggling when Bruce hit the more ticklish spots. It was nice, to see Tony relaxed in a medical setting, it posed a reassuring contrast to the last time he’d been in the harsh fluorescence of medical lighting. 

But now Bruce had done everything he could do alone, and so it was time to call in the paisiatric doctor who had been waiting outside the examination room for a good fifteen minutes now while Bruce conducted his physical. 

He had no idea how Tony was going to take the introduction of a new person, but prayed it wouldn’t go too badly. Of all the members of the team, he was arguably the least equipped to soothe a distressed little. Now Tony’s true designation had been revealed, he was the only person on the team without a little or caregiver designation. 

He was trying not to be self conscious about it. 

He grabbed the door handle, opening it and sending an awkward smile to the doctor, lowering his gaze as the man swept into the room. 

“Right, first is to get bloods-” The doctor began, but Bruce cut in. 

“Ah, already done.” He said, smiling self-deprecatingly. He knew the man probably would have preferred to do so himself, indeed, he wasn’t looking the most pleased, but Bruce knew of little Tony’s aversion to needles, and had decided doing the draws with numbing cream and a familiar face would go down better. 

He had been right, Tony hadn’t so much as cried a tear. 

The doctor, disgruntled, took the vials from him, turning to the side to mix various test chemicals into the vials. He didn't so much as twitch an eye at Tony's choice of garments, for which he was grateful, because he had absolutely no idea how to explain when he didn't know the reasoning behind it himself. 

Bruce turned back to Tony, pulling a funny face and trying to ignore how stupid he felt. 

It was worth it when Tony broke into quiet giggles, attempting to imitate the action. Bruce smiled fondly at the action, a nice moment quickly disrupted when the doctor moved in front of him, gripping Tony’s face and pulling his eyelid down. 

Tony let out a noise of offense, and for a moment Bruce held his breath, terrified that crying would come next, but instead, the doctor removed his hands, and Tony stared at him with such an affronted expression it was almost comical. Bruce had to try hard to stifle a smile when Tony looked to him for back up.

He then moved silently to the back of the room, watching the doctor perform various checks, only piping up when the man began to do something he himself had already done. 

Eventually, the solemn man seemed to finish his examination. He grabbed a lollipop out of a jar behind Tony’s head, handing it to the little almost begrudgingly. 

Bruce couldn’t help but wonder how this guy had gotten into paisiatrics. 

“So.” The doctor said, turning to Bruce. “Everything's mostly looking as good as could be expected. His lungs are still somewhat congested, and he’s still underweight, but he’s gaining enough weight for it not to be a major concern at this point in time. The stitches all look fine, no signs of infection, and his ribs seem to be healing as well as could be expected. You still need to be careful with lifting, but the bandages can probably come off in the next couple of days. How often has he needed changing?” 

Bruce blanked. He had barely even seen Tony these last few days, let alone changed him. He could feel himself flush slightly. There were just some things that would always feel somewhat awkward to a neutral. 

“Uh, I’m not- I haven’t seen him that much.” Bruce stammered. 

The doctor paused in his writing of notes, looking up at him incredulously. 

“You aren’t his primary caregiver?” He questioned, eyebrows raised. 

Bruce suddenly felt disgustingly inadequate. 

“No, I haven't- we haven’t really worked out roles, and such. After all, it’s semantics, we all know his care plan.” He said, somewhat defensively. 

“Well. I would suggest you get those ‘semantics’ worked out pretty quickly.” The doctor said, clearly unhappy with the answer.

Bruce clenched his fists and counted to ten. 

“Ok, I’m going to assume he’s not dehydrated, if the primary caregiver notices otherwise, let us know.” 

The implication that Tony would have one single caregiver managing his health rankled slightly, and Bruce couldn’t pin down why. Maybe it was the easy assumption of it, no consideration for other dynamics.

“It could be why his hormones aren’t stabilizing as fast as we would like.” He said casually, and Bruce stalled, breath halting in his chest for a moment.

“What?” 

The doctor looked up from his notepad, sighing. He placed the pad on the side. 

“His hormones. Ideally they would be at baseline by now, but they’re… they’re a bit all over the place if I’m completely honest with you. Some are raised, some are lowered, they’re contradictory. That’s why I’m going to keep him on the same dosage of pain medications for a bit longer. He doesn’t strictly need them as high as he does now, but I don’t want to disrupt his headspace by introducing pain, especially as right now you’re forming his basis of regression.”

“His what?” Bruce said dumbly. Paisiatrics had never been his speciality. 

“Basis of regression. It’s like a role model of behavior. How he regresses now will inform his experiences regressing in the future as it's presumably his first time fully in headspace. That’s why it's so important we ensure he's comfortable and in a stable environment right now.”

Bruce heart was pounding in his chest - he had not grasped the importance of this time nearly as much as he now thought he should have - what if they fucked Tony’s regression up forever?

The doctor seemingly took pity on him, softening his tone somewhat. 

“Look. It's relatively difficult to mess up, he’s so sunk into littlespace right now. Honestly, his hormone irregularities could be explained by any number of reasons. Mr Stark really is an extremely unique case, we have very few resources to use that would even partially apply to him. The only thing that you absolutely need is schedule. He needs the security of it, and it’ll set up base behaviors and triggers to use when he drops into headspace voluntarily.”

Bruce was not certain Tony would ever allow himself to willingly fall into headspace, but that was a depressing thought, especially as when he looked up Tony had gone adorably cross eyed examining his lollipop. His face held none of the stress creases Bruce had gotten so used to seeing on his science buddy. Although he was no physically younger, he certainly looked it with all the hard lines of long nights and anxious tendencies wiped away by contentment.

“From his numbers, we would expect him to remain in his headspace for at least another two weeks - his brain is still recuperating from the time out of headspace. It’ll most likely be longer; I would suggest you prepare for a month. You’ve got a lot of time left to sort out routines. For now, I want to keep his medications the same, no changes need to be made to his care plan other than the removal of the rib bandages. If he cries too much, feel free to re-wrap them. I understand you’re medically trained?” He said, looking unconvinced. 

Bruce nodded. 

“Okay then. I’d like to see Mr Stark in a week, time and day of your choosing, same as this time.”

Bruce frowned, confused. 

“But-” 

He cut himself off, the pieces sliding together before the sentence could be finished. 

Oh, Natasha . 

“I mean yes, of course, that’s fine.”

“Alright then, you’re free to take him, here are the prescriptions in case you need a refill. Don’t forget the routine, and keep a close eye on food and liquid intake and output.”

“Alright.” Bruce said, stuffing the prescriptions into his back pocket, missing the doctor's offended stare at the creased papers as he turned to pick up Tony. 

“Come on Tony, you did so well! Yeah you did, should we go upstairs now?” Bruce cooed. 

Tony reached out a hand and patted his cheek, smiling, which Bruce took as agreement. His teeth were still buried in the ear of the dragon, so he picked up the forgotten pacifier clipped onto his robe, offering it. 

Tony took it in his mouth, mumbling something that almost sounded like a thanks. 

Bruce looked at him for a moment before shrugging it off. Tony was too young. 

“Ok,” he said, mostly to himself. “Thank you, bye!” He called to the doctor, who gave a cursory short wave only when Tony started enthusiastically waving both hands at him. 

Tony giggled when he got waved at, leaning back into Bruce as the door shut behind them.

When they reached the upper communal floor, they were greeted with the sight of Natasha and Coulson watching a movie - that in itself wasn’t surprising, what was, was that Clint was with them, and was clearly out of headspace. Bruce wasn’t good at reading body language, but even he could see the stark difference between little and big Clint, and this Clint had his legs thrown over each other, and those in turn over Coulson, who was eyeing them distastefully. One of his arms was thrown languidly over Coulson's shoulders, fully invading his space, and the other hung lazily over the top of the couch, his fingers occasionally plucking out pieces of popcorn from a huge mixing bowl, flicking them into his mouth without looking. 

Unfortunately, while Bruce could easily see the difference, quite understandably, little Tony could not. 

He bounced in Bruce’s arms excitedly, tipping forwards to try and reach Clint. 

Bruce swore, gripping at Tony to make sure he didn’t fall, attracting the attention of the three in the room immediately. 

Coulson and Clint smiled at Tony, though Clint less so, but Natasha’s face shuttered, showing only vague interest. 

Tony babbled happily behind the pacifier, still reaching a hand out to Clint. 

When they reached the couch, Bruce put Tony down on the floor, who immediately rolled over, gripping at Clint’s pants and pulling. 

Clint looked down in surprise, before smiling hesitantly. Tony’s arms reached up, making grasping motions and talking fast and unintelligibly around the pacifier bulb, the plastic shield bobbing in his mouth. 

“Hey little guy.” Clint said brightly, and Bruce, the closest to Tony, got to see the fast emotions that flitted across Tony’s face. 

First, confusion, then distrust. His hands pulled away from Clint as he seemed to analyze him for a moment. Then, the emotion tipped over into dismay, and finally into sadness and betrayal. Tears filled his eyes, his lip wobbling. Clint looked panicked, looking to Coulson for assistance (as he often did, even while aged up), but Coulson had been watching the screen, so when he turned at the feeling of eyes on him, he hadn’t seen what had occurred and only looked confused at Clint’s expression. 

Tony himself screwed up his face, the picture of disappointment and upset, taking in a huge breath that Bruce was certain would become a wail. Instead, Tony paused at the last possible moment before the exhale, looking at Clint again, and then just… let it out. 

He turned his face to the floor and fell silent, fingers fiddling with his stuffed toy. 

Bruce furrowed his eyebrows, staring at Tony, disconcerted. When he looked up to Clint, he simply nodded, his face also analytical and frowning. He had seen it too. 

Tony didn’t move for five minutes, just staring at the carpet and fiddling with the dragon. Clint slowly turned back to the movie, and Bruce kept his eyes on Tony. 

That was weird. That was very, very weird. Tony had definitely been about to fit, but then he seemed to pull himself together somehow, the emotion wiped off his face like whiteboard pen. 

He didn’t like it. 

At the five minute mark, it became clear Tony was not going to entertain himself - how Bruce had been expecting him to, he wasn’t sure, Tony was, after all, for all intents and purposes, an infant. Regardless, he couldn’t keep watching the little looking so downtrodden, so he stared at Natasha until she noticed, motioning to Tony with a shrug. 

“There are some toys over by the kitchen.” She said, motioning.

“JARVIS went a bit overboard.” She continued dryly. 

Bruce smirked. JARVIS had a habit of doing that where Tony was involved. It was quite protective really. You could say cute. 

Sure enough, when Bruce wandered over to the kitchen he found a box filled to the very top with various toys. For a moment Bruce faltered, overwhelmed by the options. In the end, he ended up grabbing the uppermost toys - a mesh bag full of alphabet bricks. Not the most advanced toy, certainly, but well suited to Tony’s age range, so who really cared.

Bruce did have some doubt that Tony, who’s mind seemed to work at about ten times the speed and intellect as everyone else, would find any entertainment in simple building blocks for very long, but it was worth a try - after all, if they weren’t well received he had a full box of replacements to turn to. 

He walked back over to Tony, dropping to the ground with a quiet oomph. 

The noise startled Tony who looked up, still appearing subdued, but interest sparked in his eyes when he spotted the blocks grasped in Bruce’s hand. 

Bruce lifted the bag up to his mouth, using his teeth to tear open the mesh and tipping the blocks onto the ground. 

Tony immediately grabbed one of them, ‘ah’-ing contemplatively. 

Bruce tried not to watch him too obviously, afraid to scare him off. 

Tony seemed content to just hold the block, turning it to examine it. 

Bruce sectioned off the smaller bricks, afraid Tony could choke on them despite them truly being too big for that to be a risk. 

Absent-mindedly, he started building a tower, stacking the bricks until they raised above his head from his seated position, swaying precariously. When he looked back to Tony, he was staring at the tower greedily. Tony noticed Bruce’s attention was now on him, and made eye contact, pointing at the tower and exclaiming “ah!”

Bruce snorted, nodding. 

“Yeah Tony.” He said indulgently. 

Tony hummed in response, sitting back on his haunches and looking at the tower contemplatively. 

“Ah?” He said questioningly, tilting his head. 

“Uh… yeah, sure.” Bruce said, unsure of what else to say. 

Tony hummed, gaining a wicked grin, then, he pounced forward, hands outstretched, slamming into the tower and sending all the bricks flying. 

“Ah!” He yelled, dissolving into laughter. 

Bruce stared at the carnage, dumbstruck. 

Ok, so that was what he meant. 

Tony was going red from laughter, occasionally letting out “ah”s. When he noticed Bruce wasn’t laughing however, his laughter died down, his face gaining a worried edge. Bruce was quick to assuage this, smiling widely at Tony. 

“Wow!” He said perkily, deliberately not cringing at Coulson’s disbelieving eyes on him. Baby talk was so not his thing. “Big ah!”

Tony slowly smiled again, nodding shyly, ducking his head to look at Bruce through his new found curls. 

“Again?” Bruce asked, already scavenging for the scattered bricks. 

They played like that for a while, Bruce and sometimes Tony helping to stack the blocks, before Tony would lean back, often doing a cute little butt wiggle to gear up before he jumped, scattering their hard work. 

Tony never seemed to find the result any less funny, and they stretched it out until the credits started rolling on the others’ movie before Tony started showing interest in the blocks in another way. 

As Bruce began stacking the bricks again automatically, Tony grabbed one he was about to pick up, turning it so the colorful side with the letter was facing Bruce, and pointed at it. 

Bruce paused, looking up. 

“Yeah Tony, that’s a B , can you say B .” He said, parroting TV shows he had seen more than anything else - Tony’s mental age was lower than the age alphabet teaching could even be considered realistically. 

“Ah.” Tony said contemplatively, a finger tracing the painted letter. 

Bruce shrugged, turning back to the tower building - it was strangely meditative in its repetitive nature. 

Tony grabbed at various blocks around him, apparently building something else, or just collecting the brick. 

Bruce was pulled from his tower building by a soft “buh”.

He turned, surprised that Tony had been able to recreate the noise, but when he spotted what Tony was doing with the blocks he stopped dead. 

The blocks had been arranged across the floor in a line, one next to the other. Together they read T O N Y. 

Bruce looked at Tony, gobsmacked. 

Tony smiled, bouncing on his heels, and then pointed at the blocks, before pointing to himself. 

“Ah!” he said, pushing himself back to lie on his back, laughing to himself about seemingly nothing. 

“Guys.” Bruce called to the people on the couch, still locked in a staring contest with the four blocks. 

“What?” Clint questioned, and then Bruce heard a quiet intake of air.

“Did- he do that?” Cousin said, almost sounding as though he couldn’t believe he was asking something seemingly so ridiculous. 

“Yep.” Bruce replied faintly. 

“What the fuck.” Clint said. 

Bruce thought ‘what the fuck’ was probably a pretty good response. 

“Well.” Natasha said, and Bruce was certain she sounded at least somewhat surprised. “He always did need to be the smartest person in the room.”

That snapped the tension, and at once himself, Coulson, and Clint laughed.

Eventually Coulson had to go to do paperwork, so Natasha put on a new movie, and Bruce went back to playing with Tony, trying to get him to say the letters themselves.

Tony produced two new words in the next half hour - C L I N T and B L O C K. 

Bruce spent several minutes holding up each block, enunciating each letter and then the full word itself, to see how Tony would react. 

Tony would hum attentively in response to each utterance, even going so far as to tip his head to the side, as though he was working out a particularly difficult math problem. Then, at the end when Bruce stopped talking, he would pause for a moment, as if considering his response, and then would break into a raucous yelling of “ah!” in delight, falling over himself laughing. 

Despite knowing he was being used as a game, Bruce continued, having too much fun playing with Tony even if the other wasn’t as invested in exploring his jarring intelligence. 

Bruce held up the A cube, and, eyes twinkling and smile held back with all his might, said “ah.”

“Ahh-hah-hah!” Tony screeched, eyes wet from laughter. 

Eventually, in the end Tony grew tired, still murmuring, but no longer yelling or interacting as much, content to lie on his stomach and watch the fast moving colors of the screen in front of him, still playing the movie Natasha had picked. 

Recognising this, Bruce gave the movie a quick once over - it was incredibly tame for Natasha, something about a dog that he was certain would make him cry. It was fine for Tony to watch, and he suspected she had done it deliberately. 

He didn’t really know why she was trying to hide her care for Tony, she never held back in showing open affection to Clint. 

Bruce stood up, dusting off his pants and ruffling Tony’s hair. 

“I’m gonna go and cook some dinner.” He said to Natasha. 

She looked at him questioningly. 

“Really? Isn’t it a bit early?” She asked. 

“It is, but I haven’t got much else to do, and besides, these two will need to have it earlier.” He said, motioning to the two littles. 

“Hey!” Clint immediately protested. “I’m not little right now.”

The pout on his face and his previous wide eyed transfixion with the screen playing the juvenile film said otherwise, but Bruce deigned it unnecessary to say that. 

“Yeah of course.” He said dismissively, reaching a hand out to fluff his hair. 

Clint huffed, slapping his hand away and turning an even grumpier face pointedly away from him. 

Bruce huffed with laughter. 

“I trust you’re alright to watch them?” He said lightly to Natasha. 

Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, as though she hadn’t realized that was the inevitable situation. Nevertheless, she nodded, so Bruce nodded back, heading to the kitchen. 

He wondered how much spice he could put in a curry before it became intolerable to littles. 

Natasha tensed as a sturdy weight fell on her shoulder, turning only to be met with the very much asleep face of Clint Barton smushed against her cropped zip up. 

She softened immediately, carefully cupping his head and leaning further back into the couch to make sure he wouldn’t hurt his neck in his sleep. 

He had been resisting sleep for a full half hour, she had been able to tell without even looking, and hadn’t wanted to scare him out of it by staring. He had jostled his arm earlier, the one still in the obnoxiously purple cast, and gone so white Natasha had had to call Coulson in, who had plied Clint into taking his pain medication by promising cookies once he’d taken them. She had known he had really been in pain, because he gave in with very little fight, and Clint hated his pain meds for this exact reason - they were incredibly soporific. He had been fighting a losing battle from the moment he took them. 

“Oh fuck .” She whispered out loud, a sudden realization coming to her. 

Sure enough, when she looked down, Tony was twisted up on the rug, shifting uncomfortably from side to side, his mouth twisted into a silent grimace of pain, two tears crawling down his cheeks with more promising to follow, judging by the glossy sheen of his eyes lit up by the tv screen.

She checked her watch quickly. 

Oh God , she was nearly two hours late. 

Thankfully, it seemed as though Tony hadn’t been crying like this for too long, because she could hear the beginnings of noise from it, his nose getting too blocked for him to breathe normally. 

Carefully but hastily she rearranged Clint so he was leaning up against the couch, tucking a cushion into his arms to hug as a replacement for her own body. She then faced a dilemma - get Tony his pain meds and leave him where he was to prioritize getting the medications faster? Or take him with her so she didn’t leave him there on the floor, and possibly slow down the process of preparing the meds. 

She took one halting step in the direction of the kitchen, but Tony hiccupped tearfully right as she did so, and that was it, she just couldn’t do it. She couldn’t leave him there, in pain, to cry alone. It was wrong. 

Sighing, she carefully tucked her hand under his arms, lifting and arranging him so he was tucked against her chest like a true baby, her arms under his knees and shoulders. 

She then hurried into the kitchen, ignoring Bruce’s confused glance at the two of them. 

As she rummaged for the necessary items, she muttered sharply to herself, angry at her own ignorance and the whole situation itself. 

“Definitely getting a routine sorted out… just absolutely ridiculous…”

After what felt like an age her hand closed on the little orange pill bottle. They were the unfavoured method of delivering the chemicals to Tony’ system, which explained why they were on this floor - all of Tony’s liquid suspensions were on Steve’s floor. 

She quickly grabbed a nearby teaspoon, hefting Tony up on her body with one arm. 

Noticing her struggling, Bruce approached from behind, holding his arms out in a silent offering. 

She gratefully took it, passing Tony over and crushing the tablet with the teaspoon and pouring the fragments into an empty bottle. 

“What’s going on?” Bruce questioned, probably confused by her slightly frantic movements. 

“I’m two hours late getting him his meds.” She forced out tensely, opening the fridge to grab the milk. 

When she turned to pour it in the bottle, she saw the same guilt eating at her twisting Bruce’s features. 

“Oh Tony. ” He said, wiping a finger to brush off the tears from his face. 

Tony let out a choked sob in response, and Natasha shook the bottle to dissolve the pill so aggressively she nearly lost her grip.

“Ok, let me just-” she said, holding the bottle to his mouth. 

Tony initially turned his head away, refusing the offering, in too much pain to do much else, but when Natasha pushed more insistently at his lips, ignoring the tossing of his head, he finally accepted it, sucking miserably.

“Ok.” she said, sighing. The air caught in her throat, coming out shudderingly, and Bruce looked at her knowingly. 

They were very close together, she could smell the spices he’d been using on his clothes. Tony smelled like baby: it was a smell she wasn’t certain she believed in, and hadn’t expected to find first hand. His sucking rocked the bottle in her hand, and his tears had wet the shoulder of her shirt. She tipped her head forwards, forgetting their proximity, and her head hit Bruce’s soft worn shirt. 

She cursed quietly, moving to pull away, but his hand came to cup around her neck, holding her in place. 

His shoulder blocked out the light of the kitchen in this position, and she couldn’t bring herself to move, despite knowing what a weak position this put her in, both physically and emotionally. 

She closed her eyes, so it was just darkness, Tony’s quiet suckling and hitching breaths almost masking her own uneven breathing. 

He sucked on air for a moment, and she tilted the bottle to allow him to reach the last of the liquid. 

He was placing so much trust in her it made her muscles tight. He shouldn’t. He had no idea how she could hurt him, that she could even think of hurting him. He should be removed from her so she wouldn’t, couldn’t, hurt him any further. It was ridiculous that he had been placed in her care for even the little time he had - no matter what she did, she always caused more pain, and here was Tony, crying from it, and, in a way, given to her to fix it. It was staggering. It was terrifying. It was guilt inducing. She felt shameful, she felt scared, she felt like running, and she hated herself for it. 

She hated how she enjoyed Tony’s presence, the endorphin rush of having a little in her arms. She hadn’t earned it, and he wasn’t hers. 

But in this moment, she stayed still, just breathing in Bruce and Tony, happy to pretend no other world existed beyond the isolation of the darkness and Bruce’s arms.

Eventually, though, the bottle ran dry, and the quiet became charged, awkward. 

She swallowed, blinking heavily to clear her eyes of any moisture produced by the combination of their body heat.

She pulled away, turning to clear the mess on the counter quietly, not meeting Bruce’s eyes. 

“So…” He said from behind her. “We’re good?” He asked. 

She turned to face him, giving him what was undoubtedly a weak smile. 

“We’re good.” She confirmed. She hoped it didn’t sound as watery to him as it did to her. 

“Ok. Here you go.” He said, and she was caught off guard, which was her only explanation for why she just took Tony from him, like it was easy, like it was meaningless. 

“He needs a change.” Bruce elaborated, as though that cleared up why Tony was now with her , and turned back to stirring his curry. 

“But-” Natasha began, but before she could finish her amazingly convincing and admittedly not thought out yet reasoning behind why Bruce should do this, not her, Bruce had reached behind her and physically pushed her out of the kitchen. 

She looked at him, stunned, and quite honestly offended, into silence. 

“I’ve got to cook the curry.” He shrugged unashamedly, but she could see the anxiety in his face. 

“...I’ll get you back for that Banner.” She said, face sharpening. 

She hoped he couldn’t see the anxiety in hers. 

She walked out of the room with Tony, an arm under his ass revealing that Bruce was definitely right - Tony needed a change yesterday . It was just whether she should be the one handling it. 

Recognising that she barely knew what she was doing in a medical bay stocked to the roof with necessary supplies, she called the elevator to head to Phil’s floor - the chances of her successfully getting Tony diapered on the communal floor if she couldn’t even find what she needed were slim to none. 

The elevator arrived at Coulson and Clint’s floor all too soon, and Natasha didn’t get out for a good minute, irrationally anxious. 

She took a hesitant step inside, slowly taking the both of them into the nursery, where a panel on the side of the wall extended into a full changing table. 

She laid Tony down on it gently, trying to dredge up all her limited memories of changing Clint in this way. 

She grabbed the diaper, cream, wipes, and powder, sending a quick mental apology to adult Tony before stripping him out of the soiled diaper. From there, she entered agent mode, cleaning him up with clinical efficiency. The facade was threatened by the reveal of reddened angry skin - God only knew how long Tony had been sitting in it before she noticed him. Hardening her resolve, she smeared cream over his entire private area, refusing to wince in sympathy. This was about Tony, not her. 

The new diaper was on him soon enough, taped up and adjusted. She blinked at her work, almost shocked at how easy the whole process had been. 

She glanced up at Tony, who was watching her with drooping eyes, red rimmed from the crying. 

The “I’m sorry” fell out of her mouth before she could catch it. 

They stayed locked in eyesight for a moment, hazel digging into green, the words hanging between the two.

Then, Tony blinked, and reached a hand out for her. 

She picked him up without even thinking about it, marveling at how warm he felt, solid. 

Ok, maybe she could do this. 

When Steve woke up, he felt the best rested he had since the exact moment Tony had collapsed in the debrief room at SHIELD. 

Maybe rested wasn’t even the most accurate term. He felt the most at rest, the most peaceful since the whole thing began. He quickly stripped his bed clothes off, changing into tracksuit pants and a knitted sweater before calling the elevator and instructing Jarvis to take him to Tony.

When the elevator doors opened, he could hear Coulson’s low tone, laughing, the words indistinguishable. 

The delicious scent of what was undeniably Bruce’s cooking permeated the elevator and he inhaled deeply, enjoying the slight sting of the spices in his nose. 

He walked out and into the living room, where Coulson was standing in front of a scowling Natasha on the couch.

The cause was pretty obvious immediately - she had a little on either side of her, both of them with arms wrapped inextricably around various body parts, Clint drooling on her sweatshirt and Tony in a…. duck costume? 

“Hey Coulson.” Steve greeted to announce his presence, deciding to ignore the tableau for now. 

“Well hello Sleeping Beauty.” he said dryly. 

Steve faltered, it wasn’t like Coulson to use nicknames, unless Tony had managed to rub off on him even while regressed. 

“How long was I out?” He questioned, growing suspicious, come to think of it, why would Bruce be cooking?

“Oh, only twelve hours.” Natasha said, deadpan. 

Steve’s eyes bugged. 

“You’re joking.” He said, looking to Coulson for confirmation. 

“No Rogers, she’s right. Don’t worry though, Tony’s done fine.”

Steve remained silent for a moment. He hadn’t slept that long in actual centuries. He had been so certain it had only been a couple of hours. 

In lieu of anything to say in response, he turned to face Nat, smiling at the domestic scene of the two unbearably cute littles. Tony somehow had soft curls dropping over his eyes, and they contrasted beautifully with the slight sleep flush on his cheeks. 

“Having fun?” He teased Nat. 

Coulson smirked beside him. 

“Yes, would you like to come with us Natasha? I believe we’ll be eating in the dining area soon.” 

“I hate the both of you.” She said, glaring, but the effect was dampened massively by Tony’s head tipping dangerously low, with one of her hands shooting out to catch his head and prop it up more securely, and the other holding Clint against her while she moved so he wouldn’t fall. 

“Jarvis, take a photo.” Steve ordered, and Natasha’s eyes turned positively murderous, but she was still immobilized by her two little leeches, unable to act upon it.

It wasn’t revenge, in fact Steve was surprised to find that watching her care so gently for Tony didn’t bring up any feelings of jealousy. Instead, he only felt warm. It was almost disgusting how domestic the whole thing was, and he just needed photo evidence of it.

Tony’s head rolled on Natasha’s shoulder, and the hood of what he was now certain was a duck costume tipped over, hiding his face. 

“So…” Steve said, turning to Coulson. “What’s the duck about?” He asked. 

Coulson winced. 

“Yeah that… might have been me. He won’t take it off.”

Steve looked back to the scene. 

The topic of discussion had clearly made Nat realize Tony was still in the dress, which didn’t look the warmest, and she was now spreading the blanket that was usually only ornamentally laid across the back of the couch over Tony’s lap instead. 

Steve felt like he was melting, it was so endearing, and it only got worse when Tony reached a sleepy arm out across Natasha’s lap, finding Clint’s hand. 

“Oh my God.” He whispered to Coulson. “Has it been like this all day?” 

“Mostly.” Coulson replied wryly. “Some parts not so much. We need to talk, after dinner.” 

Steve’s heart made a leap into his throat at those words, but Tony beginning to murmur in his sleep soothed the anxiety, and he settled on the floor to stroke his hair, marveling at the softness of the waves. Tony pushed his head into his hand unconsciously, much like a cat, and warmth burned like a fire in Steve’s chest. 

Dinner came and went almost too soon, and Steve practically had to peel a sleep limp Tony off of the couch, carrying him into his bedroom and taking off the duck towel. Tony shivered in the cold air, but was apparently too exhausted to put any effort into waking up, so his eyes remained shut. 

Steve slowly coaxed his sleep-warm limbs into a onesie, praying Tony wouldn’t wake up if his aversion from being removed from duck memorabilia was as strong as Coulson had impressed. 

Eventually Tony was fully dressed, fortunately with no incident, the dark blue of the sleeper complimenting his hair and the green fur of the as yet unidentified dragon. Had Tony’s eyes been open, he knew the blue would set off the hazel perfectly, but all of his interaction with Tony since the late night medication disaster had been while Tony was unconscious. He found he didn’t mind it so much, seeing as Tony’s sleepy noises were so cute, but he looked forward to interacting properly with the baby the next morning. 

And with that he set Tony down in the crib, trying not to coo when he turned over sleepily, wrapping himself bodily around the new dragon. He lingered for only a moment, watching on, before turning on his heel and opening the door. 

It was time for a conversation. 

Chapter Text

"Think of how lame your fears seem now,
And how you might not get to live again.

Let your fear be your mirror,
Let it show you that it can't hold you."

- Nobody Owns You, The Growlers

When Tony woke up, his head hurt like a bitch. 

Or maybe hurt wasn’t the right word. 

It was like it was pounding, and spinning, and resisting his own thoughts. Trying to think through the thick soup that his brain had liquidized into was painful, it felt like straining a muscle that’d gone unused for too long. Keeping his eyes shut, he tried to reach an arm out to push a hand against his face, rub the grogginess away, but his arm swung leftwards and away from him, like a pendulum. 

He frowned, eyes scrunching up even while still closed. That didn’t feel right. His arm felt heavy , disconnected from him somehow. Further attempts at moving it solidified the feeling; it was as though he was operating an arcade claw machine - an extension of him and he had control, but the movements were jarring and uneven, and in the end he couldn't grab onto anything. 

Tony took a firm grasp of his own faculties, and made a conscious effort to pull himself together in his own head. He meant it though, he was literally pulling together all the scattered, lethargic pieces of his brain, and forcing it all together. It wasn’t easy going, it was more like trying to push polar ends of magnets against each other, and it hurt , but the soup receded somewhat, everything becoming somewhat sharper, clearer. Where before there was a detached kind of confusion at his sudden loss of limb function, there was now vague anxiety. Before, everything was hazed over and unimportant. Tony could have gone back to sleep, but there was something just nagging . Some need to stay awake. Now, Tony wants to know what’s going on. 

And so, with Herculean effort, he dragged his eyes open. 

It was unhelpful. Not only did his retinas burn with the sudden influx of white, he didn’t recognise where he was at all. The plot thickens. So did Tony’s breaths. The problem was, he’d spent all too long staring at the ceilings of his various resting places, taunted by some thought or the other while he attempted to sleep. He would recognise each and every one of them, every subtle difference. This place was entirely unfamiliar to him, and that, that was wrong . The ceiling was bright bright white, a color Tony never painted his own ceilings for the purging of the exact scenario he’s experiencing now - no good day began with him having to wince away from his own home. There were also little snatches of the light blue walls he could see in his peripherals from his apparent position of completely flat on his back. This was not any of his rooms. The panic grew.

He grasped out blind hands, trying to find purchase. His fist gripped around something solid to his left, hoisting himself upright. 

What the fuck. What the fuck.

He’s in a diaper. He’s in a diaper. Not only is he in a diaper, he’s in a wet diaper. Which means he has used it. He has used the diaper that he’s sat in. 

What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck-

Memories have started to come back now. Or flood in might be the more accurate term. His brain is suddenly absolutely bombarded with fuzzy captures of moments - himself, cuddled up with his teammates, crying, playing- fucking Jesus Christ what has he done . 

His breathing has become erratic, loud and fast, it echoes in his ears, noisy and consuming. 

Oh God .

His hands, still weak from sleep or who knows what, grab onto the bars of what he was now realizing was a crib - oh God - yanking himself out of it forcefully.

He was too unco-ordinated to make it work properly, and he landed on the ground with a solid sounding thud, vibrating the floor. It hurt, and much to his horror he found himself tearing up. Was this what his life was going to be like now? He’d given in once and had immediately become useless, unable to move, unable to think? Could it all be taken away from him so quickly?

His pants escalated into hyperventilation as he looked around the unfamiliar room. He needed to get out. He needed to get away, to go somewhere, to do damage control. It had to be possible, there had to be some way of salvaging this, because if not-

He tore at the buttons at the front of the onesie with fumbling fingers, eventually pulling off the buttons altogether and wrestling his arms out. There was a shirt laying discarded on the pretty much otherwise pristine floor, so he didn’t question the world for small mercies, pulling it over his head immediately. 

Or at least tried to. Instead, his head got stuck part way in the arm hole. Disoriented and constricted, Tony’s panic multiplied tenfold. There was no air, there was no air for him to breathe. Just panic, panic, fear and regret. 

“Tones!”

Tony froze. The shirt was still wrapped around his torso and neck. It smelled familiar. The smell made him think of warmth. He has the instinctive urge to go hug someone. 

He full body flinches, wrestling the shirt again. 

“Tones, what are you…?”

It’s evidently Barton who’s entered the room. Regressed Barton. Which means he actually has a chance at salvaging this, getting away and sorting everything out. Just needs to- yes. 

“Oh. Oh. ”

He finally gets his head through the shirt, allowing it to fall, where it ends at just past his thighs - Jesus, how big is this guy? - giving him free view of the room again, including Barton standing at the end of it, dressed in a pair of cargo shorts and a striped shirt that he suspects extends past the shorts as a bodysuit. He’s clearly in headspace; he has a pacifier clipped on his shirt, and fluffy dino socks on his feet, and he also- he also has the expression on his face that Tony, even in his limited interaction with Barton at all let alone Barton regressed, can recognise as him struggling to come up. 

Fuck. Fucking fuck. 

Tony takes a deep breath, sends up a prayer to every God he’s never believed in, and takes off sprinting on unstable legs through the bedroom door. 

He distinctly hears Clint yelling for him to stop, and then Coulson, but doesn’t turn around to glare at him. He’s got limited time here. His legs buckle and land unevenly on the floor - he really hopes there isn’t some kind of muscle damage there - but he’s moving at a decent pace. He finds his way into a kitchen-living room type layout, and swings his head frantically, gasping for air, but eyes lighting up when he spots the shiny, gorgeous elevator. He rushes over to it, jamming the call button in his haste to get out, forgetting entirely about JARVIS. 

And the elevator doors slide open smoothly to reveal- to reveal- 

Tony goes skittering backwards so fast his feet nearly go out from underneath him. 

Out of the two of them in the elevator, Natasha is the first to process, twitching her arms towards him for only a second before her eyes go wide and she grips Steve’s arm tightly, not taking her eyes off of Tony’s huge, stricken ones. 

Steve’s face softens when he catches sight of Tony, which he doesn’t want to think about, then twists into concern as he takes stock of where Tony is. He goes to make forward, only stopped by Natasha’s hand. Tony can see his confusion spread across his face like a bright red stamp as he turns to face Natasha questioningly. Her eyes still don’t leave Tony, her body stock still and tense, and when Steve looks up, Tony, from his frozen position 5 meters away from them, gets to see the exact moment it clicks.

Steve’s mouth rounds around a silent ‘oh’ and he immediately looks to Natasha, presumably for some kind of input. None is forthcoming, and so he looks back up, a myriad of emotions fighting for first place across his features. They remain in their stricken tableau for what feels like an hour but realistically could only be less than a minute before Natasha makes her move.

“Tony, can you just-” She starts, but she makes the mistake of leaning in closer to him, and he stumbles backwards, one knee half collapsing under him, until his back hits the wall across the room from them. Now he’s been shaken out of his rabbit in the headlights position, he can hear that he’s not breathing right again. His exhales are loud, fast and noisy in the room, echoing and taking up too much space - it builds a thick barrier in the room, Tony up against the wall, Natasha and Steve held back, still in the open elevator. If Tony could just get his mouth to work, he could tell JARVIS to call them away and they could literally vanish before his eyes. But when he goes to use his mouth he finds his tongue dry and numb, his throat uncooperative. A pitiful whimper spills from his lips, and he wants to close his eyes so badly to hide from the humiliation of it all, but to close his eyes to take them off of the threat in front of him, and Tony is up against a wall, legs shaking, nowhere to go and nothing but life destroying options in front of him. 

He keeps them open. 

“Tony?” Steve this time. He sounds much farther away than Tony logically knows he is. His head is swimming, it’s getting harder to keep hold of himself. He is seriously falling apart right here on the carpeted floor. His legs want to collapse to their knees. Maybe he just needs to pray. If ever there’s a time to call for a miracle it's now. His shaking legs beg for a second chance. He’s liquifying right here on the floor of his own tower. 

“Tony, I know this is a lot, but could you take a deep breath please? You really need to take a deep breath.”

Before Tony can even think about it he’s obeying the order automatically, sucking in a huge mouthful of air and almost choking on it in his eagerness. 

Why did I just do that, how did he just do that to me.

God he could make me do anything-

Liquid springs up in his eyes, and Tony isn’t sure he has the mental capacity left to be any more humiliated by yet another character breaking turn of events. 

He holds his eyes even wider than before, trying to fight off the inevitable spilling of tears. 

Natasha, ever the diplomat, steps in. 

She doesn’t move this time, which Tony is grateful for, because he pushes into this wall any harder he suspects he’ll break the laws of physics and his atoms will simply melt into the atoms of paint and drywall, and he would cease to exist all together. 

In fact, that may actually be preferable. 

“Tony, you need to stay here. I don’t know how you got out of headspace so early, but look at you - you aren’t meant to be. You’re shaking, you’re hyperventilating, and you’re barely upright. I bet you’re tired, right?”

Tony can’t help it - he nods. Because God, he’s so tired. And something about her voice is heavy, it drags him down, until he’s half slumped against the wall, letting his back hold his weight. 

“We understand this is a lot. We don’t have to talk right away.”

Tony breathes out heavily. Not talking. The air feels soporific and encompassing around him. He slides another inch down the wall. 

“But we can’t leave you alone. You’ll drop again, and it’s not safe.”

Drop again. Drop again. Drop again, drop again, drop again, drop again-

“Not.” 

“Safe.”

The rage boils up so quickly it’s tearing out of him before he can even process that he’s standing upright, fists balled. It feels as though it burns him on the way out, acidic and vitriolic and panic laced. 

“I’m not a little!” He screams across the room, immediately searching for some exit he’s missed. 

He sprints towards the window, the momentary shock of his outburst giving him the necessary advantage - his hand reaches the emergency release latch, he presses it - Steve and Natasha get over their split second stall, but too late. 

Tony’s blood is boiling in his veins, and there’s not a moment of hesitation in him when the window pops open. He throws himself out as Steve reaches him, just too late. A look of horrified shock on his face as Tony kicks his leg out of his too little too late grip around his ankle

The moment of reprieve doesn’t last long. The wind whips his hair around his face as he falls, the cold mist outside rapidly soaking his shirt and obscuring the faces no doubt watching his uncontrolled descent, and he blindly and automatically reaches for his iron man suit call band. 

It’s not there. 

It’s not there-

Tony only has a second to look to the approaching ground with panic stricken eyes, only a split second to process the swooping breathtaking fear rocketing through him, before metal arms encircle him at bruising speed. 

His heart thunders in his chest painfully as JARVIS takes them down low enough that he can just about spot the heads of the people on the pavement - thankfully not low enough that they can spot him, in all his diapered, pantless glory, but it’s more than enough to get his breathing racing. Knowing JAVIRS, he’s done it deliberately to impress to Tony both just how close he was to the ground and what would have happened if he had actually hit it. Then, the suit makes a turn, flying them up much slower. The wind is still impressive though, and Tony’s shivering too hard to even process what the robotic voice is saying into his ear. That is, until the suit pulls him up to the communal floor, and Tony blanches. 

Absolutely not. 

“JARVIS, workshop!” He yells over the noise. 

JARVIS starts some kind of protest, but no matter what his body and everyone else is trying to tell him, he does have control here. 

“Override Fe-360!”

Tony swears he can feel JARVIS’ disapproval through the way the metal arms tighten minutely, flying them to the workshop and onto the landing space at an unnecessarily fast pace.

When Tony steps out of the suit’s arms and into the ‘shop, JARVIS immediately starts ranting about caregivers and headspace, but Tony just silences him with a hand, walking numbly over to the worn couch and collapsing onto it. 

From the moment he was sat, semi-relaxed, the adrenaline drained out of him, leaving him limp with exhaustion. Down and out, the memories started pouring back in. Him, on Steve’s lap, him, in Natasha’s arms, him, running around with no care about how he looked, him, with bottles, toys, blocks, pacifiers… and happy. So damn happy. 

Tony leaned to the side and heaved, producing nothing. 

Everyone had seen. His mind worked at a mile per minute, but no solutions were forthcoming on how to fix this. There was nothing. He was spent. His life was gone. 

The tears were fast, and hot, and dripped into his gasping mouth. All he could think about was the ghost memory of someone’s arms around him. 

His life was gone.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

"Trouble's always gonna find you baby

But so will I"

- western nights, ethel cain

Steve has seen a lot of fuckin’ stupid things in his life, but that crimson red and gold suit sweeping in from the sky had got to be ranking in the top three most stupid, reckless things he has ever seen. And he wants to be angry, he wants to be raging, but he’s too busy being worried out of his mind. Is it Tony Stark in there, or is it just a kid?

“What the fuck is he doing here?” Clint called into the comms. Steve can tell everyone is having the exact same thought, because Coulson is patched into the line and he doesn’t bother to comment on the language. Instead, disbelieving silence reigns.

“Why can nothing ever be easy.” Steve muttered under his breath, trying to quell the rising panic clawing up his gut. 

“JARVIS? Can you patch us in?” Natasha asked. 

“Regrettably, Mr Stark has barred me from doing so.” Jarvis said, and he sounded genuinely apologetic. It doesn’t lessen the blow. 

The iron man suit performed a quick pivot, flying directly into a hoard of the robotic drones they’d been battling for the past 10 minutes. 

“Okay. Okay.” Steve murmured, trying to plan around Tony while simultaneously pushing all thoughts about his welfare to the side. 

“Iron Man is most likely going to be non-communicative this callout-”

Clint snorted, Steve decided to ignore it. 

“-so we’re going to stick to the established plan, just try to work around him.”

“Is that it?” Bruce questioned. “Is that all we’re going to say about this?” 

Steve looked up, swallowing as the Iron Man suit sent a barrage of missiles flying into the crowd of metal drones, ducking at the last second to be out of the firing zone of the smoking debris.

“Yeah.” He said, voice gravelly, eyes still trained on the flashes of red and gold. “That’s all we’re saying.” 

When it hits Tony, it's because he wasn’t paying attention, plain and simple. He wasn’t thinking about battle strategies, about formations, about the suit, or the hostels surrounding him. He was thinking about Steve, and every other member of his team and all of their recent actions. 

Which is to say, he was thinking about regressing and pretending not to be. 

The impact of the drone into his chest threw him backwards, smashing him into a building. The jolt ran right through Tony’s ribs, and it took everything in his power to not immediately puke all over the suit. He instinctively curled in on himself regardless, trying to catch his breath, but the motion activated the thruster mechanisms, throwing him backwards again and damaging the repulsors. The second hit with the building was his downfall; the regression engulfed him all at once, winded, in pain, and already ruminating on the comfort of the nights before, Tony was taken down before he could even process it happening. 

When a hurt baby finds themselves trapped hundreds of feet up, bruised and winded, in a metal prison, do you know what they do?

They scream. 

And God did Tony scream. 

He took his time about it, gathering the air up, his lungs stuttering to inhale, and then, just as he felt like his chest would explode if he took in even one more molecule of air, he let out all the noise he possibly could. He tensed his back, arching in the suit, howling with all his might. 

This, though, pushed him higher into the air at breakneck speed, and the repulsors, damaged already from the reckless abandon used in the fight so far, couldn’t take it. 

As Tony screamed, the repulsors cut out. 

And he fell. 

“Sir!”

The suit seemed to catch itself, dropping, stabilizing, dropping, stabilizing. Tony wasn’t able to appreciate much of it, most of his effort going into breathing between huge yells, until the suit finally dropped to the floor, giving him back the control to slump on the floor, legs out in front of him and back against the wall. 

Little pieces of awareness started crawling back as the pain receded, unhelpfully, in Tony’s opinion. 

The nagging, clawing feeling of a premature rise from a drop yanked at his brain, pulling his attention, and the nausea from before only increased. Really, being dropped and unaware of the continued humiliation would be better in Tony’s opinion. At least then he wouldn’t be responsible for the clean up of this mess. He should get up. He should go back to the battle. Tony should do a lot of things, but he found himself not doing any of them. Instead, he leaned forwards, wheezing his way through practiced breathing exercises, and tried his absolute hardest not to think about anything soft. 

He didn’t know how long he'd sat there before the front of the suit opened up like a tuna can, but it had certainly not been long enough. Steve’s worried face was literally the last thing he needed to see, except for the fact that it was the only thing he really, truly wanted to see. The clawing feeling returned tenfold, and Tony couldn’t tell whether he was crying before and had only just become aware of it or whether it had only now emerged to ensure his life is as awful as physically possible.

He could have tried to stop the tears. He could have. But when he looked up at Steve, and the heavy weight pulling it at him only grew, it was all too easy. 

Tony fell.

Well, no, actually Tony doesn’t fall. He leans . 

Frantic is a kind word for the state Steve’s in when he wrenches open the front of the suit. Animalistic may be more accurate. The fear was all consuming, watching Tony fall, just like New York, until he began his jolting ride down, barely catching himself, falling bit by bit, his near uncontrolled landing on the hard concrete. 

Slumping at the side of the battlefield and staying unmoving. 

Everyone finished the battle at near superhuman speed. But Steve went savage. It was a blur of violence and crushing and bruised knuckles until it was over and he could finally get to his baby. 

When he opened the suit, the fear didn’t really abate. Tony looked unharmed, sure, but he was crying, and he smelled like a brewery. A brewery and someone who had just had an accident. 

Not great. 

He also couldn’t for the life of him tell what headspace Tony was in. He wasn’t getting many clues. But, despite that, he couldn’t help himself, he reached his arms out. Tony seemed to meet him halfway, falling forwards into his arms, his damp hair resting on his stomach. 

Tony was dressed in only a shirt, his shirt in fact, thin and oversized on his frame. It made him look almost unbearably young.

“D- d- d-” Tony stuttered with his gasping out-breaths. 

Steve let out a shuddering sigh. Someone’s hand landed on his shoulder, their thumb rubbing at the tight muscles. He could feel the presence of his team, his family, behind him. They were all there. 

“D- d- dada! ” Tony finally got out in a new flurry of tears.

Steve shut his eyes, dipping his head to rest on Tony’s. 

“Oh Jesus Tony, we can’t keep doing this.” He murmured against Tony’s hair, trying to impress into his very skin the sheer level of care he has all around him, if he could just accept it.

“We can’t.” He pleads, and he can feel tears in his own eyes. 

Surely it shouldn’t feel this awful, to love someone so much. Surely it had to get better than this. Surely it should be easier.

“Come on.” Steve said, “Come on Tones, come on. Come on.” 

He gathered him into his arms. It didn’t matter how difficult it was, or how awful. He wasn’t giving up; he would never. And he knew, as everyone else surrounded them, that no one else would either. As long as it took. 

When they finally arrived back at the Tower, after a long, grueling, and tear filled ride on the QuinJet where Tony point blank refused to leave Steve’s side, Bruce grabbed ahold of Steve’s sleeve before he could begin his dead eyed trek to his bedroom.

“He needs to be checked out. And a bath.” Bruce said, wrinkling his nose. “Let me help. Please?”

Steve shifted Tony in his arms. It wasn’t a difficult decision at all.

“Yeah, of course Bruce, thank you.”

Family, family, family. 

Once Bruce had declared Tony safe, with only minor bruising, they had both moved on to bathing him. Tony had remained worryingly silent and withdrawn, creating little fuss, but really little reaction of any kind. Steve had a growing suspicion that this was how Tony acted when he was between headspaces, though that explanation was not particularly comforting. When he was finally clean, Steve made quick work of diapering and dressing him, putting him down to sleep in the crib still set up in the corner of his bedroom. When he laid him down, Tony sniffed up at him, eyes heavy with sleep and red rimmed. Steve loved him so much it made his lungs ache. Made everything in the world feel smaller. 

“No matter what you do, no matter how many times we do this, I’m coming back.” He smoothed a stray piece of hair out of Tony’s eyes. “Till the end of the line. If you’re going to be stubborn about this to your last bone, so will I. I’m not giving up.” 

Tony blinked up at him, eyes nearly shut. 

“End of the line.” Steve murmured, smoothing Tony’s hair with his hands until he quickly gave in to sleep. 

But that was it. Everything that needed to be done had been done, which unfortunately left Steve finally letting the weight of the exhaustion hit him. 

He was only sat at the kitchen table for a minute before his head dropped into his hands, shoulders shaking. 

When Bruce sat next to him, he didn’t even try to pretend to be put together. Leaving his eyes pointed down at the table made it a lot easier to say the words:

“I don’t know how to do this.”

It was something he had never said about anything. It was something about Tony he had never admitted to anyone.

“I don’t know if I can.” 

That was something he hadn’t admitted even to himself. 

“I don’t know if I can do it well enough for him.”

Bruce’s hand wavered nervously in his eyeline for a couple of moments before it hesitantly came to rest on his own arm.

“You’re doing your best. And your best is enough. He just needs time. We just need to give him time.”

Steve breathed out deeply.

“He just needs time, Steve. Time, and us.”

Steve nodded, straightening his spine, slipping into planning mode. 

“Shall I call the team? We’ll have a meeting, discuss-”

“No.” Bruce said shortly, much to both of their surprise, it seemed, by his widened eyes. “We have the rest of our lives. No matter how hard he pushes. We have the rest of our lives to work this out. Now, we need some sleep. We all just need some rest.”

“Some time.” Steve huffed, smiling weakly. 

The rest of our lives. 

Family, family, family.

When Tony wakes up, he climbs out of the crib by himself. He silences JARVIS by himself. He goes up to his floor, by himself. He locks the floor down. He sits, by himself, on his own floor, and doesn’t move. 

He doesn’t feel good about any of it. 

He feels cold.

Chapter Text

The average human temperature ranges from 97 to 99 degrees fahrenheit. Tony runs hot, the arc reactor constantly generating heat has him sitting at a comfortable 99.5 the majority of the time. It’ll probably bite him at some point, slowly overcooking, but he’s never been that fussed about it. There are always so many things to think about, it doesn’t even make the list. 

“JARVIS, check again.”

“As I have said the last seven times, Sir, your temperature is still 100 degrees fahrenheit. It may be considered a low grade fever as a consequence of your injuries and your missed medication, but nothing that would raise medical alarm.”

“...You’re certain?” Tony murmurs. 

He’s not feeling any of his 100 degrees right now. Having reached his own floor, he had proceeded to sit down, not move, and get progressively colder over the course of the time he’d remained there. It could be anything between 30 minutes and several hours - his grasp of time is slippery. 

He’s still wearing the onesie. 

A hitch in his breathing is his only warning before a brand new wave of emotion flooded through him. 

Tony inhales shakily, pushing his forehead into his hand. He has never felt like this before, like a raw nerve stripped of all its warm, insulating flesh. Every imagined draft in his floor, every gust of new memories through his mind’s eye crashing up against his non-existent defences, overwhelming in their intensity. 

He needs to do something , but what he wants isn’t what he wants, what he needs to do he can’t. It’s a physical state of indecision and he’s so cold . 

“JARVIS?”

“100 degrees Sir.” 

Even he sounds tired. Hell, Tony’s tired. 

He wraps his arms tightly around himself, shivering. It’s harder having the memory of what it feels like, to be held. It’s easier when it’s just ideas he forms in the mornings when he’s not quite aware yet, wispy concepts of a feeling, nothing as solid as a broad chest and supersoldier arms. He thought maybe it would be easier, before all this. If he knew. Then he could reject it all, so quickly. “Headspace; not for him”. It still doesn’t really feel for him . It’s for that other him, that baby they all met that took over Tony’s autonomy and destroyed his life. Still, he wants , with an intensity that is paralysing. 

It’s getting harder not to think about it. Them. All of them. Being held by Steve, sure, but that’s not entirely new. There have been missions that have gone wrong, involuntary trips to medical where he’s been hoisted up and carted off. But he was all fight back then. And then there’s Coulson, Bruce, Natasha even. Huddled into Clint watching some animated shit. He had smelled like cheerios and diaper rash cream. Objectively disgusting. He’ll never get to have that again. 

He’ll never get to have that again. 

The tears are becoming a regular fixture in his life. Tony’s not convinced there’s enough vaseline in the world to fix the dried out mess that is his face. Fuck knows what the excuse for the media has been, but he’ll need to make a better one, to explain all this. 

Just thinking about how he’s going to do that sucks all the air out of him all over again. There is so much to do, and he can’t make himself do any of it. The media, the team, Pep, leaving and starting over again somewhere, his paperwork. He doesn’t even know enough to know everything he should be panicking about, and the only people he could get that information from are the last people he should be seeing, for a long time. 

Tony drifts; he sets his head on his arms, and wakes up and indertiminable amount of time later, feeling tears-sticky, hot in the face and cold everywhere else and gross. It’s like drugs, back when that was his thing, it’s like withdrawing, he just wants that hit, knowing he shouldn’t. 

He pulls himself to his feet with no small amount of both effort and pain, and finds himself walking forwards without any conscious thought to do so. Getting in the elevator is the easiest and hardest thing he’s ever done. He wants people, he doesn’t want to see anyone. His legs move without his permission. He needs them . He wants none of this to have happened. 

Fuck . 

The metal doors close with a finality Tony really isn’t ready for. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, he told himself he wouldn’t do this. But with each floor that the elevator descends, the heavy knot tangling his insides is loosening with the anticipation of their faces. 

By the time the doors’ chime announces their opening, Tony feels looser than he has all morning, a numb acceptance settling over him. Maybe not numb. All he knows is the doors open and he just can’t care any more. 

All of his team are sitting at the kitchen table, talking about something. The noise doesn’t really reach Tony, so strong is the urge to go over to them and so immediate is the counter response. Somewhere, in the deep recesses of his battered cranium, rational thought is screaming about what unfathomably poor choices he’s making right now and their inevitable consequences. He sways on his feet, shifting in the metal box. 

“....to help him… need to….” Steve’s voice drifts over. 

Tony pushes a hand against his mouth so he doesn’t call out to them. They’re discussing him like some problem that needs to be strategized for and he should be furious, really, that they didn’t even have the decency to invite him to their little team powwow. 

His thumb is in his mouth and he isn’t quite sure how it made its way in there.

“Maybe we just need to leave him for now.” Bruce says, one short sentence, quietly. Tony doesn’t know how or why he picks it up out of the noise, but it hits him like a freight train, suddenly, the realisation:

He doesn’t want that. 

He doesn’t want this, anymore. 

The cold, the pretending all alone, being left to himself, he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t. 

He wants- he wants-

“Steve?” He mumbles around the obtrusion of his thumb.

No one turns. No one sees him. 

The tears on his cheeks are falling faster, faster. 

He’s fucked this up. He has no idea what he’s doing, or how to do it, or if he wants it, but he does . 

He wants Dad- Steve, he wants Steve, he wants-

“ Steve?”

No one twitches. 

They don’t want him. He did this. It feels like a thousand tonnes are slamming onto his chest all at once and he no longer has the ability or willpower to resist that kind of onslaught. He drops straight to the floor with a distressingly unsubtle thud. 

“Uh, guys? I think our little problem might have been solved.” 

Sounds like Coulson. Tony tucks his head into his knees. Agent’s going to send him back up, to the cold floor with nothing soft or warm and he’s going to stay there forever and it will have been his path that took him there. 

He hears footsteps, and sniffles, brushing his nose against the onesie. It’s so soft and it’s not his . 

His breath sticks in his throat with a horrible choking sound. 

“Tony?”

Tony looks up, wide eyed, to see Steve in front of him in the elevator, halo lit by the soft lamps of the common room. He looks like an angel, and the light of him is so tempting, but Tony doesn’t deserve it, he deserves what he chose. 

“Oh Tony.” Steve says softly, and brushes a hand up against his face, wiping away some of the gross stickiness. 

Tony’s admittedly piss poor composure absolutely crumbles in the face of this. 

“I- I’m sorry .” He gasps, reaching out before snatching the outstretched arm back in at the last possible second. 

Steve huffs a laugh, and Tony shrinks in on himself more, preparing for the inevitable. 

Instead, Steve’s arms close around him, a blanket of warmth. 

“I don’t want you to be sorry, baby, please, you don’t need to be sorry.” He whispers, pressing his lips against Tony’s hair. 

“I want…” Tony trails off. What does he want?

Steve pulls away, and Tony has to clamp his teeth down to hold in a whine, wincing at a sharp pain in his thumb. Gently, Steve hooks his fingers around the painful digit, pulling it away from his mouth. Tony flushes. He’d forgotten. None of this feels as natural as he thinks it probably should be. It’s like the adult him is screaming and kicking in the back of his brain but also he is that adult him. Also he isn’t listening. 

He tosses his head, frustrated. 

“I couldn’t hear you, Tones, what?” Steve says, his hands still resting on Tony’s shoulders. 

“I. I- want…” 

“You want?” Steve says, his eyebrows furrowed in. “What do you want, sweetheart?”

“I want-” Tony gets out and then he’s crying again, desperately grasping for Steve. 

“I’m sor’y,” He’s gasping, and how did this happen again? His hand is partially in his mouth and he can’t bring himself to pull it out. “I’m sorry! ” They just keep coming out of his vocal cords, the “r”s rounding into “w”s and he’s so humiliated and panicked. 

And then Steve pulls him up and into his arms, and all of a sudden? 

Tony just doesn’t care any more. 

Because it feels right. 

Tony’s muscles completely surrender to the hold, as Steve hefts his body weight to lean against him. He sucks in a huge breath of air, ignoring the ambient noise of multiple hushed conversations around them, and exhales it into Steve’s shirt, and when he does it again? It smells like safety. Maybe a bit like home.

Chapter Text

When Tony wakes up, he is A: still not waking up in his own room or even living areas, and B: distinctly absent of the panic this had previously caused. Instead, he opens his eyes with something burgeoning on acceptance to a ceiling that is not his own. 

The sun is dappling the ceiling in distinct rays; neat lines of light across already bright white, which brings into his existence the third thing to note about Tony’s return to consciousness - C: he is hungover. Quite badly hungover, actually, the sun, which on any other occasion may actually be considered relaxing, is more like a knife into his retinas, and he quickly rectifies the issue by slamming his eyelids right back over them and taking several deep breaths through his nose to prevent whatever he may have eaten over the past day from making a violent re-entry to the world through his own already foul-tasting mouth. 

It’s not the best wake up, but he’s had worse. In fact, upsettingly, he feels significantly better than the day (or days, he’s getting really quite fuzzy on timings) previous. He’s not cold - whatever clothing he’s wearing is long sleeved and long legged and soft , fleece like, and absent of the cold metal snaps that had pressed like a branding iron to his chest the last time he had woken up in these circumstances. It’s not immediately childlike by feel, and Tony doesn’t deign it necessary to submit himself to open-eye checking this presumption yet. Instead, he takes stock of himself. He has a headache, sure, but not the same crushing pressure behind his eyes, this is more of a garden variety hungover ache. He feels clean in a way that he hasn’t for much of his time back in the ‘adult’ world. His hair is curling around his face softly, not matted to his scalp. Perhaps most importantly, he doesn’t feel the need to cry, which has become an alarmingly frequent feature of his recent life, nor do his eyes feel sore from any crying he may have done in the recent past. The all consuming craving for human contact has abated, leaving him content to stew in his musings for as long as the world will give him. He doubts that’ll be any substantial period of time. Life hasn’t really been very giving to him lately, in Tony’s humble opinion. 

He’s not missing any memories from the night before, and he has to admit, if to himself only, that the reason for that is that he knew full well what he was doing when he stepped into that elevator. Or at the very least, that was not the actions of his nebulous enemy, the infant who invaded his consciousness. That was all Tony. A drunk or coming down Tony exhausted from turbulent, previously inexperienced cravings and emotions, sure, but it was him. He had decided to go down there, he had decided to reach out for Steve, he had decided, at some point, on some level, that he wanted this. 

Whatever this may be. 

By that logic, it was him who cried into Steve, who allowed himself to be held, and comforted. He certainly didn’t feel as though someone else was controlling him. He didn’t feel very in control, no, but no one else took over and behaved for him instead. 

Tony doesn’t like the realization he’s careening towards, but he’s doing it all the same, his own trolley problem. There's a lever he could pull, a decision he could make to keep moving away from this whole thing, but the wheels just keep rolling down the track, and his hand isn’t moving. There’s casualties on either side, people tied down to the tracks. He just hadn’t considered that he could be one of them. He looks to the person who decides his fate, but they wear his face. It’s all just been him, this whole time. 

He’s been fighting an enemy that doesn’t exist. Maybe his trolley problem is inaccurate - he hasn’t been on his own, separated from the others, he’s been tied down with his team all along, the other rail line empty. And Tony’s just been pulling that lever this whole time, determinedly setting a path of destruction at every possible avenue, ignoring the option of no pain, running them over again and again and not seeing his own face smashed to pulp against hot metal. 

It’s all him. That child that ruined his life, that was him. It always has been. 

Tony always has been. 

He sighs heavily, rolling over and pushing his face into the cool fabric of his pillow. He thought he had known this, when he made the decision to hide it. How could he not? Everything about his classification process was harsh, the needle they used to take his blood and Howard’s hands against his face, black ink on the bright white paper of that first letter, before Howard took any and all evidence and sent it up in smoke. It’s an obvious thing, even third graders understand classification - it’s what you are . But this whole time, Tony’s only goal has been to take that part of him, that shameful child, and shove it into some deep dark closet where it could cry by itself and pull itself together. He’d spent so much time making sure he could never, ever be construed as what he knew full well he was that it had become entirely separate to him. 

Something deep inside him seemed to click into place, an understanding so basic he couldn’t believe he didn’t realize he was missing it. Tony Stark was a little. Even now, even in this resoundingly adult headspace, he was still a little. 

When he hears a knock on the door, he doesn’t flinch. This isn’t his floor, it stands to reason that there would be other people around, aside from the reasons he’s piled atop of everyone else indicating that he cannot be trusted alone. And if he’s honest? He’s succumbed to the exhaustion of it all. He’s dragging himself into a kind of weary, emotionally stunted acceptance. The idea of Steve walking in now doesn’t fill him with dread the way that he can’t work out whether it should or shouldn’t. 

“Tony?” His voice is smooth, calm, and just slightly tired, much like Tony. They’re probably all tired. A tendril of guilt curls around Tony’s stomach, and for the first time since the beginning of this entire shitshow, it’s not guilt for what he’s done to his own life, but what he’s done to the others’.

“JARVIS let me know that you were up.” Steve says softly. 

Silence falls in the room. Tony sniffs noncommittally into the pillow, for lack of anything else to do really. He’s too preoccupied with his re-discovered identity crisis to consider responding at this exact moment, but Steve’s presence doesn’t make his heart jump into his throat or override his rational functioning with the need to be picked up. His head is clear. 

He doesn’t think he should be running away anymore, maybe, but he thinks he should think he should be running away. He doesn’t know what he thinks, or what he should be doing. This is surely some kind of fresh start that he isn’t making the most of, but he’s so tired , in a sense much deeper than his body which is sending all the messages that it’s well rested, just to be contrary. 

“Okay.” Steve says, in a hesitant way that suggests he wants to follow it up with something, but he doesn’t, just closes the door - still so softly - with a quiet click. He doesn’t linger by the doorway as Tony might have expected either, it’s just that quiet click of the door shutting and his steady footsteps down the hallway.

Tony debates rolling over and going back to sleep, but truly, he doesn’t need it. He’s awake, just exhausted in every other way. His head hurts from the thinking. And probably the booze. 

He sits up, cracking his eyes open millimetre by millimetre and stretching to a dozen very satisfying cracks from his poor, abused back. Finally, he lets himself take stock of his surroundings. It’s not a crib, thankfully, because despite his new found calm, he doesn’t think he would handle that experience again with much grace. No, this is an adult’s bed. A nice one, with slate grey sheets with an at least decent thread count, as they slide through his fingers. The curtains are open, the offensive sunlight still streaming through to put a soft haze on the walls - they’re a shade of green that Tony’s certain the can would describe as “mountain air” or something equally ridiculous, but Tony describes as “so close to white it doesn’t even matter”. It really doesn’t matter anyways - they’re plastered with so much loose sheet paper you can hardly see the colour on the main wall directly facing the bed. 

It’s a lot of pencil sketches, mainly, and with the light it takes Tony a second to work out what they actually are , but when he does, his eyebrows nearly fly off his face. 

He performs an immediate rescan of the room, gathering more evidence that yes , he is in fact in Steve’s bedroom of all places. 

The sheet slips from between his thread-count-appraising fingers and he looks down in subdued slight hysteria. He is in Steve’s bed . 

Cautiously, he looks back up to the wall of paper, sliding carefully out of the bed to pad over across the bare wood and closer to it. He hesitates a second before reaching a hand out to smooth down the edge of one sketch whose bottom corner is lifting from its blu-tack mooring. It feels too intimate to actually look at these, but surely Steve understood that leaving Tony of all people in this room would not result in a complete lack of snooping. 

The sketches are beautiful. Tony didn’t know why he would expect anything else, Steve was a talented artist even from the very minimal and clearly quick sketches Howard had sequestered away for his private collection of fanatic memorabilia. These clearly have more thought to them. Many are subjects he recognises from when Howard used to let him look through the less delicate pieces of Steve’s things that he had; portraits of the howling commandos, James Barnes in particular. A much younger looking Peggy Sousa- or Carter, Tony supposes, to Steve at least. Even more are of the New York skyline, though interestingly, the one Tony has grown up with, not Steve’s. Centrally though, is a cluster that makes his breath hitch. It’s them, or more accurately, it’s all of them but Steve: team dinners, movie nights. Sharp lines create a jagged arrow flying from Clint’s bow, the background undefined. Softer and wispy is Natasha’s hair, obscuring her face as she leans over tea. They go on and on, multiple on some of the pages, as though Steve wanted to fit in as much as he could: Clint and Natasha conspiring with smirks on the quinjet, a handful of lines that somehow manages to create out Bruce’s furrowed face as he stares petulantly at a screen, a portrait of Thor that becomes too large for it’s A4 limits. 

And then there’s the ones of Tony. Noticeably shorter in supply than the others, but there all the same - his face. Some are fully finished, one of him staring displeased at his holograms, and how Steve has managed to capture their incorporeality he has no idea, another of him laughing at something Clint has said, him at the kitchen counter with a mug of coffee, a complicated expression on his face. Otherwise they’re largely just sketches, chicken scratchings of lines like Steve wasn’t quite sure where to put them, but one in particular catches his eye. The eyes are done confidently, committed lines marking out the wrinkles he pretends he doesn’t have yet on his forehead. They’re shaded perfectly, but they look sad. Tired, and very sad, but subtly so. Beneath them, his nose, which is well done but not his point of interest. It’s his mouth, or rather, his lack thereof. There’s several ghostlike outlines of a smirk, covered by a large smear of gray and thinning of the paper where it’s been raked over by a frustrated eraser presumably. It’s the only actually uncompleted one that Tony can see, and he moves on to the next, slightly uncomfortable for reasons he can’t identify. 

When he sets eyes on the next one along, though, he stops in his tracks.

To an outsider, it probably wouldn’t seem significant. There’s nothing incriminatingly infantile about it, it’s just Tony, fast asleep, mouth slightly slack against the pillow. His hair is curling around his face much like it did when he woke up, fluffy and wilder than Tony lets it be. One of his hands rests up near his mouth, his thumb nail resting just below his lip. You wouldn’t be able to tell, if you didn’t know, but sure enough, when Tony glances down Steve’s scrawl in the corner dates it to only a few days ago. But that’s not all it is. While all the other ones of Tony depict emotion, that’s coming from him. This one is different. It’s like graphite itself is familiar, knows him well. The drawing is clearly affectionate, fond, warm. The emotion doesn’t come from Tony in it, he’s unconscious. 

Tony swallows, turning back to the bed to get away from the sight. There’s a neat stack of clothes on its corner, folded almost militantly, which coaxes a brief twitch of a smile from him. They’re obviously too big when he picks them up, undoubtedly more of Steve’s, but he pulls them on anyways, grateful to get out of the grey fleece long sleeve and trousers set he’s currently in, because he didn’t buy them but they fit him perfectly, and more tellingly, there’s a single embroidered patch of three electric blue cartoon style cogs just before the waistband. He can’t help the flush that climbs up his cheeks. He doesn’t remember much after Steve grabbed him from the elevator last night, just that he got tired quickly and couldn’t resist the allure of sleep when faced with Steve’s warmth and reassurances, but he most certainly did not dress himself in these. He’s never even seen them before. 

He chooses to ignore the not-quite-fabric material of the black underwear he’s in as he slips it off in exchange for the boxers left for him, thankfully his, because stealing Steve’s underwear really would make this too weird. He knows what he was in before wasn’t boxers, however much it tried to imitate it, but Tony is having a calm morning, and if that involves a smidge of self delusion then so be it. At least it isn’t the garishly decorated thing he woke up in the first time. And praise the Lord above, this one is bone dry. 

Steve’s clothing fits him much worse, the drawstrings of the joggers pulled to their absolute max and still hanging off of his hips, and the sleeves of the shirt that he’s sure is intended to be a tee falling to just above his elbows, but the slightly coarser material of the two of them steadies him somewhat in his adult-ness.

He does hesitate, before he turns the door handle, looking back to the room automatically to see if there’s some exit he hasn’t seen before. But there isn’t, besides the window, and even if he had a desire to repeat that incident (which maybe he does, deep down, some part of him), he’s aware of the olive branch Steve has extended by giving him time alone in here. And aside from that, he doubts that the show of trust extends beyond skin deep. If Steve hasn’t put some safeguard in place, JARVIS most certainly will have. 

He takes a deep breath, turning back to the door and pushing it open. 

It’s too short of a walk, down to Steve’s kitchen. He belatedly really, really wishes he had designed it to be longer. 

But too soon, Steve’s humming and the smell of sweet breakfast food is reaching him, his feet rounding the corner as his heart jackhammers in his chest, not getting the memo that Tony is being calm, rational, and above all else, adult about this. 

Steve is standing at the stove, flipping a pancake, his feet bare on the tiles, wearing tracksuit bottoms and a battered SHIELD t-shirt. His hair is in a cowlick at the back, which is the part of his head Tony first sets eyes on. He looks more casual than Tony’s used to. Less put together. He turns slower than he should, and Tony is aware of the care behind it, seeing as there’s no way he was quiet enough to avoid detection by super senses as he made his way here. 

Still, when their eyes meet, Tony’s instinctively dart away and around the room, taking in all possible options other than the one in front of him. They linger on the mound of blankets on the couch before jumping back to Steve, an apology halfway formed in his head before he realises how ridiculous it would sound to apologise for this, out of everything. 

Instead, he looks back to Steve, despite the panic, snapping his mouth shut and waiting for his move.

Chapter Text

Steve hears Tony padding down the hall long before he actually appears around the corner. In fact he heard Tony shuffling around in the room before he had even left, though he’d tried not to. Illusion of privacy, if nothing else. 

When he does enter the kitchen, he looks hungover but much better than the evening gone. It’s not a high bar. None of them had remembered Tony’s drinking habit after he had emerged from the elevator until he had puked all down his clothes and somehow miraculously immediately gone back to sleep within a span of five minutes. He and Bruce had manhandled him through a propped up sponge bath and hair wash, fed him his several doses of missed medication through a sippy-pacifier, and then selected the least childish clothing they could find with the knowledge that Tony could wake up in either headspace and for the sake of everyone’s emotions it would be best if he was not in a onesie the next time that happened. Tony had remained so deeply asleep throughout all of it that Steve had worried about the safety of it, but Bruce seemed to be confident. 

Littles just weren’t meant to tolerate alcohol, so really it was a blessing that Tony had hurled it back up or they would have had to worry. Tony was also battle exhausted, and he had somehow emerged back to an adult headspace long before he should have, and even Steve, with his limited knowledge of littles on the academic side of things, could recognise that would not be particularly restful. He just needed the sleep, and that was the mantra Steve had repeated to himself half the night as he stroked Tony’s hair out of his eyes, unwilling to overstep by climbing into the bed but struggling to leave him alone. 

So it's a relief, to see Tony, pale and conflicted yes, but awake and alert and truly not looking so bad after all. 

He was most definitely adult now. Steve doesn’t know how to feel about that. It’s probably needed. They need to talk. Some selfish part of him just wants to look after Tony in the only way he’s learned how to, but they need to get through this moment first, and besides, Tony isn’t just a little, he’s Tony, and Steve thinks that failing to acknowledge that would be yet another unforgivable mistake on his record. 

“You wanna sit down?” He asks Tony, projecting as much calm as he can. He has the advantage of being able to just barely pick up on the hammering of Tony’s heartbeat in an environment as quiet as this. Tony doesn’t have the same ability to hear his, racing just as quickly. As things with Tony so far have gone, this isn’t the worst morning. This is the closest they seem to have gotten to taking some kind of step forwards. Tony could have stayed away last night, and he also could have left this morning. He had wanted to give Tony some time to adjust. That seems to be part of what they’ve been doing wrong; everything about how they’ve dealt with this has been in panic. There hasn’t been a single moment for Tony to work out what’s happened, he hasn’t even been able to sit down and talk to them, just careening from crisis to crisis. It’s no wonder he’s been running away this whole time; it’s what he’s trained himself to do his whole life until today, and despite their best intentions they haven’t really given him any impression that isn’t them chasing him, in some way or another. 

It’s perhaps undignified, to think of Tony as some kind of fleeing animal, in a roundabout way, but the comparison is difficult not to draw when faced with the primal fear he has displayed up to this moment. 

He’s thinking of Bruce’s words. Tony just needs time. They all just need some time. 

And Tony needs to know that he can still be an adult, or at least in an adult mindset. What Tony needs, more than anything, is to know this isn’t going to change absolutely everything. And certainly not for the worse. 

So, again, he pushes back every instinct to rush over to him, and instead turns back to the stove when Tony doesn’t respond to his question, staring unfalteringly at the blueberry pancakes so he doesn’t look back up again. He flips the pan with a skilled flick of the wrist, meditative in the precision of it. 

“You can have some pancakes with me if you promise not to throw yourself out of the closest window.” He says dryly, as though his entire body isn’t tense with the notion that this could land very, very wrong. 

The pause seems to stretch forever, and Steve’s movements as he wedges the spatula under the pancake are jerky and stiff. 

Then, the scraping of chair legs on tile rings through the air, followed by the soft thud of a person landing in it. 

Steve silently lets out a breath, and just almost lets out a smile. 

Every tense muscle relaxes. He’s tired, much like Tony. He doesn’t want this to be difficult, not like the past few days, and nor does he really think it has to be. He can work with this. 

He plates up the pancakes in silence: one plate with two for Tony, syrup and extra blueberries. Another for him with eight pancakes, a dusting of icing sugar, and some yogurt. He slid the two plates on the table, placing the cutlery in the middle before grabbing the both of them two steaming hot cups of coffee. Opinions on little’s having caffeine were contentious, but this was Tony , and he suspected they’d both need it. 

When he sat down in the seat opposite Tony, the other man lifted his head just slightly from its downturned position, ceasing his toying with the drawstrings on Steve’s joggers to stare up at him through his hair, curling over his eyes. 

Steve had to fight not to smile. It wasn’t that Tony was anxious, he would never want that, but at the hair. He had never imagined, when he had first encountered Tony, that beneath all the gel and preening (and honestly, often sweat or machine grease) that it would be quite so unruly. It makes him look softer, and with a pang, Steve thinks that’s probably why Tony got rid of it. 

Steve doesn’t say anything yet, just picks up the cutlery and starts digging in. Supersoldier metabolisms wait for nothing. The silence is just on the wrong side of comfortable, but not unbearable, and after a few minutes of the only noise being the scrape of Steve’s cutlery on the rapidly emptying plate, Tony seems to cautiously deem it safe enough to take the clear invite, and picks up his own cutlery, chancing one last disbelieving glance at Steve before he actually starts eating. 

“Sorry.” Steve blurts, suddenly feeling the need to justify himself. “I know you must be feeling a bit rough, I hope it’s not too sweet. I just know that you like this.”

Tony finally lifts his head to meet him face on, setting down the fork with its loaded mouthful. 

“I-” He says, and then pauses, studying Steve with the same expression he uses for schematics. 

“ How do you know I like this?” He asks. 

“...I noticed?” Steve responds, unsure of what the big deal is. 

“I didn’t tell you.” Tony states, gaining more confidence in his words. 

“Yeah, Tony, I noticed.” Steve repeats, trying to keep any kind of judgement out of his voice, though the realisation that Tony doesn’t think they know anything about him beyond what he has simply told them is slightly crushing. He’s reminded of that feeling, in the hospital, that he had never once seen beyond his own preconceptions of Tony. It’s not a good one. 

It all feels so long ago now. He feels as though he's known Tony a lifetime. For Tony, it must feel like yesterday. 

In line with this thinking, Tony seems truly baffled by this notion, leaning back in his chair and continuing to study Steve, his head slightly cocked to one side and brows furrowed inwards. 

Steve turns back to the food, hoping he’ll follow suit. 

“You should eat.” He murmurs. 

Tony doesn’t move for another long moment, but then he picks up the cutlery again, and for ten minutes, they just eat in silence again, the air more contemplative than tense now. 

It’s finished both too quickly and not quickly enough for Steve’s liking, and soon the plates sit in front of them, empty. 

“We should talk.” He says, brushing icing sugar and nervous sweat off his hands on his sweatpants. 

“Yeah, probably.” Tony mutters, which is better than Steve thought he was going to get. 

“I…” He begins, and then realises he truly has no idea how to even begin this. 

Tony takes over, in the end. 

“What happened to my beard?” He questions, and there’s a bit more fire in this one, a bit more life. He’s probably blaming Steve, he can’t imagine what other conclusion Tony would have come to. His hand rubs against the smooth skin of his jaw, eyes staring straight into Steve’s own in challenge, but he looks hurt all the same.

“It fell out.” He says gently, aware of just how much this loss must sting. How much Tony relies on appearances to prop himself up, even if he himself can’t necessarily relate to it. “I’m not sure about the specifics behind why, something about hormones. It wasn’t deliberate, I can promise you that. I think someone shaved it at one point, but it was almost all gone by that point and it seemed uncomfortable for you. I honestly don’t know if there are options for you to grow it back, but we could- you could look into it, I’m sure.”

He wants to give Tony as much autonomy as he possibly can. He knows, in a way, what it's like to wake up different.

“Hmm. How did you know I was hungover?”

“You smelled of it in the battle-”

And Steve has to suddenly force back the surge of frustration, the renewed anger at Tony for making such a stupid decision. For not taking even a single second to consider all of them, or anything that had happened, or, God forbid, his own safety . 

His anger won’t help anything, but Steve is only human and despite all of his true sympathy for Tony it takes him a couple seconds to browbeat it into submission before he can continue. He doesn’t want to hurt Tony any more than they already have and more than Tony has evidently already hurt himself but this is all just so hard and complicated and it never had to be. 

“You smelled of it, in the battle, and then you were sick last night, do you remember?”

Tony’s eyes widen briefly, the outline of his tongue running over his teeth as though hunting for evidence. 

“Well, I wouldn’t expect you to. You were tired.”

‘Tired’ is an understatement. Tony has put himself through enough emotional and physical stress to land any average person in some kind of coma for months. 

Steve opens his mouth, but then yet again thinks better. He knows what he wants to ask: why did you do this, how did you do this, why, Tony, why , would you do this to yourself? 

This isn’t about him, and he has to try and remember that. It’s not about him getting to take care of Tony, it’s about Tony being taken care of. 

“Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

“How-” Tony says, and his voice breaks, his cheeks flushing at the interruption. “How long?”

“Twenty days.” Steve answers, not bothering to ask for clarification. 

Tony’s face blanches to a truly frightening shade of pale, a shuddery breath being drawn quickly through his nose. His hand reaches out to the table, to steady himself presumably, but it slips off the edge and he teeters on the chair. 

Steve is beside him before he even thinks about it, kneeling beside the chair with a hand on Tony’s frozen form. 

“JARVIS? Is Tony up to date on medication?” He barks. 

“Sir has missed several doses in the last 48 hours, but as per the instructions, should not double up to compensate. He is due another dose of the regimen in approximately five minutes.”

Steve breathes out, and Tony seems to somehow tense further under his palm. It’s still difficult to reconcile Tony Stark with the Tony he has now, a Tony who is scared and has no idea how to react. He doesn’t know whether to move the hand or not. 

Instead, he hooks it under Tony’s arm, gently pulling him and moving him, albeit shakily, to the nearby couch, pushing him down to sit while he leaves to fetch the abandoned coffees on the kitchen island. 

When he comes back, Tony’s face has thankfully regained at least a modicum of colour, though he soon pushes it into both of his hands, sighing heavily. Steve sets the mug in front of him and tries to ignore Tony’s flinch. 

“JARVIS, could you please put on something Tony likes, low volume.”

The TV switches onto a black screen, text scrolling against it. The audio, some kind of rousing orchestral number, is just audible. Steve sends even more silent gratitude towards the AI, and settles into the couch at a respectable distance. 

Steve estimates that they’re twenty minutes in and Tony’s breathing is at least 50% slower before he lifts his head from his hands, and it’s another ten before he attempts speech. 

“I know we need to talk. Actually talk.”

“Yeah, Tones, we do.”

“...I don’t know how to start.” He almost whispers it, Steve would struggle to hear without his biological advantage. 

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, “Me neither really.”

“Question for a question? I’ll be gentlemanly, of course, ladies first.”

Steve really does nearly smile then, because it’s the first glimpse of the Tony he knew before all of this happened that he’s gotten in several weeks. 

“Alright then, sounds good to me.”

“Well go ahead Sparkles, I haven’t got all day.”

Steve has many questions he wants to ask, and even more that he actually should ask. He has several drafted ones in his head; respectful and not pushy, exhaustedly debated with Bruce and tailored to be as sensitive as possible. 

Steve opens his mouth and blurts “Can I look after you?” and then leaves his mouth open in abject horror at his own actions, staring dumbly at Tony who doesn’t even seem to process the words for seconds that drag into an age. 

“You- what?” He stammers, and oh man Steve really has gone into this all wrong at the first possible opportunity, what is wrong with him?

“I- uh-”

“You’d- you’d- want… that? ” Tony says, with nothing to it but pure disbelief.

“I mean, yeah Tony.” He replies instinctually, because how couldn’t he?

Steve’s heart is straight back to trying out for a place in the grand nationals in terms of speed and thunderous noise as he watches the words reach Tony, whose face does some kind of horrible twist as though this is a catastrophic revelation. Steve braces for the impact of the rejection, lowering his gaze to his pants in case he starts doing his often-mocked ‘puppy eyes’ unintentionally. 

His head snaps straight back up again when an awful choking noise fills the air. Tony’s face is screwed in on itself, his bottom lip trapped mercilessly between his teeth in some clear attempt at trying to hold himself together. 

“ Tony. ” Steve breathes, reaching out, and Tony just… fractures. 

He sucks in a great gasp of air, and the force of the suppressed sob that exits him leaves him bent in two over his knees. 

It’s very much not the cries of a little. This is just Tony, pushed far beyond his max, and he’s breaking to pieces right in front of him. 

Steve is helpless to the impulse to reach out; he’s holding him between one blink and another.

Chapter Text

Tony only holds up the pretence that he is going to be able to pin his emotions inside of him with nothing but the sharp point of his canines against the chapped skin of his lips for a minute before he’s giving in. It’s all he seems to do these days, break in new and ever humiliating ways until presumably there will be nothing left of him but dust.

He should really get some water. It has to be dehydrating; he’s cried more in the last week than he has in his entire adulthood up until this point. 

This time is even worse though. Even more humiliating. He isn’t little at all . Not like last night, trapped in the half in, half out limbo. No, Tony Stark is 100% adult and crying his eyes out in front of Captain America with nothing to hide behind. No pesky little two year old to take over and make this acceptable; no. In his hour of need, he has been abandoned at the one point where this character flaw of his could be even remotely useful. 

Tony isn’t even sure what dignity he’s trying to preserve anymore, and when he’s enveloped in Steve’s arms he feels nothing but an overwhelming relief for the opportunity to hide his face in the other’s shirt, and a pavlovian rush of safety. 

He gasps through it for long, agonising minutes, absolutely ruining Steve’s clothing and furious about the whole ordeal. 

“It's okay. Shhh, it’s okay. Breathe. ” Steve murmurs above him, like shushing a nervous horse. Tony is just as likely to bolt. “It’s alright, Tony. You’re okay, I’m here.”

He has to carefully manage his breathing for another minute or so before he’s even able to reply. 

“I’m not little.” He asserts, because he feels Steve should know that before he starts to get even mushier with him, though it's not really helping his case that it’s still muffled into the other’s torso. 

“I know.” He responds simply. 

That’s kind of worse, actually. He has absolutely no excuse for this, and horrifyingly, it makes a fresh wave of tears wash over him. 

“Maybe we could pretend I was. Y’know. For dignity’s sake.” He jokes wetly, because he misses being funny instead of this awful, sobbing mess every three minutes. He used to be funny. He used to have some control over these people and how they saw him. He has no dignity left to save, but maybe Steve could do him a solid and at least pretend he does. 

“You’ve had an awful few days. It would be too much for anyone. I’ve held lots of people, a lot of soldiers, when things became too much. Everyone has a limit. I’m not judging you; I cried when I woke up from the ice. Hell, I cried at Clint’s stupid dog movie.”

When Tony pulls back just slightly, to try and start cleaning up his face.

“I feel like all I do is cry. ” Tony says, swiping a frustrated hand against his eyes.

“It must be frustrating.” Steve says, taking the hint and moving back to give him some space. 

“Yeah, thanks Captain Obvious.” Tony snaps, wrapping his arms around himself in the sudden absence of warmth. 

Steve, ever gracious, doesn’t bother snapping back at him. 

“I just- this isn’t fair .” He says, fully aware of the whining tone of the thing. 

“Yeah, no, it isn’t.” Steve readily agrees, which is surprising. “It isn’t fair that you’re a little, it isn’t fair that you didn’t really get a choice in this, it isn’t fair that we couldn’t ask you how we should have gone about things. It’s not fair Tony, and I’m sorry about that, but you are a little and above anything else it isn’t fair on yourself for you to keep doing what you have. I don’t want to have to do this to you, no one does, but you have to start looking after yourself. I would love to do that. Cards on the table, the whole team would love to. But we won’t make you. If you really, truly, don’t want that, we will do our absolute best to try and find you someone else. But you have to have someone. We-” Steve breaks off, swallowing. “We really didn’t know what to do, in the hospital. They said it was a miracle you’d lasted so long without serious damage. It isn’t fair, but you weren’t fair to yourself . So you have to have someone. I’m sorry, I really am, but we absolutely can’t just pretend this didn’t happen.”

“You don’t get it!” Tony explodes, and would stand out of his seat to emphasise the point if he thought he wouldn’t halfway keel over with the act. “I’m not- I don’t need that! I was fine , I was managing , it’s only now that-” And then he cuts himself off abruptly. It’s only now that you’ve made me want this. 

Steve doesn’t seem to notice his slip. 

“You were not ‘ fine’! ” His own voice is raised, frustrated. “We thought you could have brain damage, heart damage, Tony you could have died. How long has it even been. Tony. How long?”

“I got by.” Tony mutters, thinking of the stolen moments of regression, before he was in the cave and forgot what being comfortable could even feel like. 

“How. Long.”

“11 months. Maybe.” 

“Maybe?”

“I regressed by myself. Partially. And then I just. Didn’t.”

Steve laughs brokenly.

“Christ, Tony, what was even the plan?”

“I didn’t need a plan! I was fine , I told you! I never even needed that until you lot came along, ruined my life and made me want things I’ve never-” He snaps his jaw shut with enough force that it makes his teeth ache, but it’s too late. Steve’s caught the mistake. 

“Want things?”

Tony turns his head stubbornly, clenching his jaw still. 

“Okay, let's just take a step back. We’re going too fast. I’m sorry, this is, ah. Difficult, for me.”

Jesus Christ, has Steve matured twenty years in the time he was out? Why isn’t he screaming, demanding answers? The sting of it now isn’t that Steve is being unreasonable, like every other fight they’ve had, which at the very least left them on even footing. It’s that he isn’t , and his newfound respect for Tony’s position within this discussion does nothing but shine a glaring light on just how unbearably juvenile Tony’s hysterics seem next to him. 

“I didn’t want to have to say this. I’m sure you know it anyways, really. But I can’t let you on active duty without a caregiver in some form. It just isn’t safe and you can’t take suppressants, ever again.”

Tony doesn’t twitch. It’s his worst fear, but he’s spent enough time imagining it coming that it's almost anti-climatic. 

“Tony? This is important, you can’t . You will die, and I can’t-”

This time it’s Steve’s breathing that is wobbly, and when Tony snaps his head back around to look, Steve’s eyes are suspiciously wet when he next speaks. 

“I can’t see you like that again. Please.” He says thickly. 

Tony swallows, the emotion like smog in the air. 

He can’t believe he’s saying it, when he does. It’s like an unimaginable defeat. It’s like… hope, or something equally ridiculous and optimistic sounding. 

“What would it look like?”

“Huh?” Steve asks dumbly. 

“What would it look like. If we went through with this whole… thing.”

To his credit, Steve adapts to the 180 in attitude with remarkable speed. 

“Well… I would look after you? That’s the main thing. The others as well, maybe, if you would be up for it. Or just me! I don’t mind just me. You would have to come to me, when you felt… younger, or at least let me know in some way. That’s the bulk of it really. Caregiver; giving care, you know?”

This time, Tony does stand up out of his seat to pace the living room, running his hands through his hair before turning to face Steve and throwing them outwards. 

“That’s what you don’t get though: I don’t do that. I don’t just feel young, that’s not me. It just doesn’t happen. I’m not a- I’m not like these other littles.”

“But you are.” Steve says quietly, like he’s trying to soften the blow through volume alone. “You are like every other little. Biologically, it’s all the same. You’re just- you’ve trained yourself out of it Tony, and when you were little these past weeks… that didn’t seem unnatural to me. That seemed like the most natural thing in the world.”

Tony tries to ignore how his throat feels all tight at the heartfelt sentiment behind it. He still can’t quite believe it, he can’t imagine anything so antithetical to his existence being natural at all, but he can hardly remember it in any meaningful, objective way, so he falls back on what he does know. 

“I have literally no idea how to do that. I’m not lying, I can’t do what you want me to do. Following some inane drop schedule made by a doctor, that’s not my brain. I don’t need that. I don’t even want it. I actually loathe it.”

Steve goes to speak, but Tony’s not done. This is a ridiculous arrangement that everyone has to be aware would never work in practicality but are too afraid to admit that because that would mean admitting that, on some level, Tony was right . He can’t handle this, but neither could they. No one could feasibly handle the amount of work that he would create, and he isn’t built for this life they’re presenting him with. 

“I mean, what if I’m all zonked out and we get a call? What if I can’t do it when you want me to, do I get pulled from the team then? It just wouldn’t work.”

“Okay,” Steve sighs. “I won’t make you sit down, but I think it would be better, because you’re a details person, right?” He pauses, waiting for a response, and Tony, feeling suddenly ridiculous for standing redundantly halfway across the room, panting with the exertion of the pacing and his monologue, nods hesitantly. 

“So let’s talk details. Semantics.”

Tony really can’t believe he’s entertaining this, but maybe this is what he was thinking earlier. There’s nothing left of him but the kind of person that lets another guy sit him down and tell him how he would dismantle his entire life. 

He sits. 

“You would need a drop schedule, that’s true, but I don’t think you necessarily know what that is. I agree that a traditional day by day one may not work, so it would probably be that you drop for a set amount of time a week, let’s say two hours to start, and then we increase that until we, that is, you and I, think it's enough. I’m not sure what would happen if you didn’t manage to meet that requirement, but I don’t think benching you makes much sense. We can discuss it, maybe that means that we take a day to try and get you in that headspace. And I know you say you don’t feel lit- that, very often.”

Tony glares, preparing to launch his argument that he doesn’t feel it ever , despite the obvious lie hidden in those words, the hours of pulling himself back from an unseen ledge. Because that’s not feeling young , that’s feeling panic at potentially feeling young. Steve beats him to the post.

“ But , you’ve been on suppressants for God knows how long.”

Tony privately thinks it isn’t God’s knowledge, it's his. He knows exactly how long it's been, but he isn’t particularly keen on letting Steve in on the fact that he has eaten, slept, and breathed suppressants since he was 10.

“And the doctor said you’d be feeling out of sorts for a while. You aren’t going back on them, so the urges are going to return. You don’t have anything preventing you from getting into that headspace anymore, so it's just a case of recognising when it's naturally happening anyways. So, this is exactly what would happen if you choose me, or me and the team, instead of us sourcing someone. When you felt little, you would tell me. If you wanted to try being little, we would try that. If you hadn’t tried in a week, we would try and trigger that headspace, just through activities, spending some time together. If that didn’t work, which I doubt, for long enough, we would see a headspace doctor. As for the team, you’re benched for the time being, but not because of your classification. You’re still really beat up, Tony, you must feel it?”

Tony doesn’t give him the win of agreeing, but can’t take the win of disagreeing. Everything hurts. Muscles he didn’t know existed hurt. He’s exhausted and weak, like he’s been sedated in a hospital bed for weeks at a time. He still feels the remnants of the bug that got him into this mess, and that was three weeks ago now, let alone the ribs that obviously haven’t healed yet considering the pain on every breath. 

“I, and Fury, for that matter, would bench any member of the team with your injuries.” Steve says firmly. He clearly wants this point especially to be understood, which is fair, because he’s dispelling exactly what Tony had immediately suspected and been furious about. He’s still not happy. He’d worked through many other injuries on the field. Admittedly, not to this extent, and admitting even more, without the knowledge of the team on the vast majority of occasions, but still. He can manage. 

Like Steve can read his thoughts, which Tony isn’t entirely dismissing at this point, he continues. 

“It’s not about pushing through it, it’ll just get worse, and now that you’re up, the effects of the withdrawal from the pills are going to be more difficult for you. We have no idea if you could deteriorate, and it compromises your safety, which I really wish would be enough for you to understand, but it also compromises everyone else’s safety because if you suddenly start struggling on the field, there’s not much we can do at that point, and we would have to divert manpower to work out what was going on, why, and help you.”

Tony resents the implication that he would require rescuing, like a damsel in distress, but then the memory of his last contribution to the end of a fight pops up like an annoying little alert in the back of his mind, which was largely sitting against a pile of rubble, crying and trying not to puke on his suit interior, and he doesn’t try to push the point. 

“As for call outs after you have medical clearance, it would probably look a lot like Clint and Coulson. It's probably going to take a lot of time to get to that point, to be honest with you. We need to talk to the doctors. But you can do everything Clint does. You come with us, you age up for fights, and on the rare occasion you might not be able to, we have other arrangements. It really doesn’t have to be complicated Tony, I promise. It’s a lot of details, a lot of talking, but really it is as simple as I said - I look after you when you need looking after.”

And then he falls silent, waiting for his response. Tony swallows. It’s… a lot. It’s his whole life, changed in the exact ways he feared, except for all the ways it isn’t. There’s a war inside him; relief, that he still has a place on the team against all odds, that they aren’t throwing him to the wolves for lying and continuing to lie over and over again, for manipulating them and running away and doing everything he could at every avenue to make this as difficult as physically possible on the off chance that he might be able to outrun the consequences of his own actions if he adds enough zigzags in his path. On the other side, all consuming terror of giving in to all this and never getting himself back. 

Tony’s tired of being scared. He’s tried running. 

And he’s a scientist. There’s a variable he hasn’t tested. 

“What would it look like?” He asks quietly, and tries to ignore his own heartbeat in his ears to hear the answer.

“What do you mean? Didn’t I… oh. Oh, okay, yeah, of course, uh-” Steve stumbles over his words, blushing, and it’s so much closer to what Tony’s used to from him that he almost smiles. Usually it's because Steve is so furious with him he can’t get the words out. Now he just looks caught off guard. 

A vicious part of him thinks good. His turn. 

“Well, you were still really smart, of course.” It’s so indescribably weird, the way Steve’s face creases with a smile as he fondly discusses this. Him. It’s like listening to him describe some friend’s infant. “We’d have to find some toys that would work for you, I think you’d get bored pretty easy, but you liked the alphabet blocks. Or at least, torturing Bruce with them, I’ll have to tell you about it at some point, if it doesn’t come back to you. But yeah, we’d play, do some activities. Snacks, lunch. Maybe a, uh,” 

Steve gives him a sideways glance, like he’s not sure he should say it, then swallows and does anyway. 

“Maybe a bottle. You liked them before. You went quite young as well, and the bottle made you tired, so I’d put you down for a nap. You have this stuffed toy from Coulson, you called it duck but I think you were just teasing, I’m not sure if you actually named it.” 

He’s gaining steam, reminiscing, and Tony is so desperate to put some form to this shapeless smudgy period of his memories that he’s drinking it all in. 

“I’d tuck you in,” Steve says, smiling with a fondness so palpable Tony yet again gets the feeling he’s hearing about some other person. “And then afterwards we’d have dinner, watch some cartoons, cuddle on the couch. And then bed. I’d rock you, that really helped.You wouldn’t have to think about anything other than being happy. And I would never mind if you weren’t, I would just try and make things better for you.”

Tony is being assaulted by such a bizarre amalgamation of emotions he can hardly name them. He’d like to say the dominating one is horror, but it isn’t. It’s more so a form of jealousy, for himself. That he can’t remember any of this, and never will be able to. That’s probably why he says it, immediately losing the battle without even thinking. 

“Would I remember?”

Steve somehow softens further. “Yeah, Tony. You would probably remember it. The only reason you don’t now is because of the meds and because it was such a hard drop. And you were unwell, Clint said things get fuzzy when you’re not in a good place. This was the hardest point.”

Tony doesn’t say anything. He knows he’s given himself away already, with one three word question, he’s said it all, really. His most shameful desires aired out. To admit he wants to remember it is inherently admitting he would want to experience it. 

And he does. The force of the desire is alien and turns his stomach but he does want . He wants that so much . To not have to think all the time. Just to have someone else there. 

“You were perfect Tony.” Steve says, with all the earnestness of delivering one of his reputation-worthy Captain America speeches. “You weren’t even trying.”

Tony can’t quite bring himself to say the words. To commit to soundwaves the reality of ‘I want that’. ‘I want that so much, and I had never known I did. I would give up my whole life, for that little bit of peace, and I didn’t know until this moment that it could be an option for me.’ So he settles for the next best thing. 

“I don’t want to look for someone else.”

And then, when Steve doesn’t immediately get it and the panic of letting this slip away from him ramps up, he lets another piece of him chip away. 

“I want that.” Tony finally breathes. “I’m so tired.”

“I know.”

Steve reaches out, and wraps his arms around him. This time, Tony has no excuse. He’s not little. He’s not crying. He has no reason to be accepting it. But he leans in all the same, basking in the feeling of warmth, all around him. 

Chapter Text

It’s been three days, and Steve is close to losing his mind. 

He’s not doing so well with this caregiver thing, potentially. They’d gotten the conversation - the conversation - out of the way, and he had been so bolstered by the win that he hadn’t really considered the day to day reality of it. Perhaps, in this regard, Tony’s accusations held some water. It just felt like finally, finally they were moving forward, and he was so relieved at the steps they’d taken that when Tony requested privacy for a while to process everything, he had agreed with hardly any misgivings.

He was thinking of himself. If it was him, he would need space, if it was him, he would need time. 

He hadn’t thought about how long Tony considered a while. He hadn’t thought about how much space he would need. 

It’s been three days. 

He’s not sure where the boundaries lie. Tony had, however hesitantly, agreed to him taking care of him when he felt little, and had seemed open to the idea of a schedule, or at the very least a minimum of hours. But he hadn’t said “be my caregiver”. Hadn’t said “sign the papers”. Of course, that would be too soon really, and he wouldn’t expect it, never mind the fact that Steve technically had papers, though considering they were given to him only because Tony was deemed physically and mentally incapable of providing them himself, that really didn’t mean much to him. If Tony was any other person, and if they were in any other situation, Steve would simply go to his quarters and ask him if he would like to regress, or at least check up on how he was doing. 

The first time he tried to do so, he was stopped dead in his tracks when at his request, Jarvis simply relayed “Sir’s floor is not open at the moment”. Literally stopped dead in the elevator. He just hadn’t considered it. The lines aren’t just difficult to see, they’re downright non-existent. 

Well, he supposes that’s not quite true. There’s one pretty clear line. Steve physically does not have the permissions to force entry to Tony’s floor, and therein lies the stalemate. Schrodingers caregiver. At once given permission, and very literally not. He keeps trying to define the point where he enforces something, how many hours, how many days- weeks? But that line is as slippery as all the others, ever-extending as he tries to decide the lesser of two evils; breaking in by force, or leaving Tony alone to self destruct again. Patience has never been his strong point. It’s killing him. Phil actually escorted him to the gym yesterday, like taking a dog for a walk, and then just supervised as he beat four separate punching bags into pieces. 

“Have you decided?” He asked when the tattered remains littered the ground and the only noise left was Steve’s equally ragged breathing. 

“No.”

“I’m not saying this to be harsh, Steve, I really hope you know that. But if he doesn’t come out soon and you can’t make yourself go in, one of us might have to.” 

“Jarvis? Report on Tony?” 

“Sir is in an adult headspace, with stable and normal vitals, and currently poses no immediate risk to himself as per my parameters.” Jarvis had obediently rattled off, used to this routine by now. 

Steve had motioned to the ceiling tiredly, as though that had proved anything, and Phil had given him nothing in return but an unimpressed stare. 

“It’s a good sign that he lets Jarvis tell us that, no?” He had tried halfheartedly. 

“You know as well as I do that he could have also told him to lie.”

“Jarvis? Is the report true?”

“It is.”

Another unimpressed stare. 

“I’ll give you three guesses as for what I’m going to propose in regards to that.”

Steve was and is infinitely grateful that he isn’t a spy. The constant back and forth of everything gives him a headache. 

The conversation had been left unresolved. 

“Jarvis?” 

He doesn’t even need to ask for specifics now, the AI has grown so accustomed to him and his tony-based neuroses. 

“Stable, no risk.” 

He furrows his eyebrows. 

“Headspace?”

“...Adult.” 

He sighs, agitated. Even Jarvis is getting sick of him now. He can’t stand the sight of his own goddamn apartment any longer - the side where Tony’s bottles sit, the couch where they hugged, his bed that he hoisted Tony into, the empty crib in the corner like a fucking shrine.

He grabs his sketchbook (the one full of images of baby Tony - catholic upbringing prevails again, he truly is a glutton for punishment) and oil pastels, and instructs Jarvis to take him down to the common floor in the hope that there will be someone else there to sit with at the very least.

The sleek metal doors slide open, and Steve steps out, a “hello” hanging off his lips when he turns the corner and falters. 

Tony is on the couch. 

Tony is on the couch with Clint. 

Tony who has not been seen in three days. Tony who has not seen the team in any capacity other than actively fleeing in nearly a month now, and yet somehow, by some miracle, there he is, like a mirage. Steve has to vehemently stifle the urge to rub at his eyes, partly because he’s afraid that if he does, Tony will disappear like marker off a whiteboard. 

“Heya Cap!” Clint calls with a quick one handed wave. His eyes don’t stray from the screen, and as Steve cautiously moves closer, he can see that the screen is displaying the Mario Kart race track. It’s a favourite of Clint’s, but, more interestingly, it’s a particular favourite of little Clint. His eyebrows are trying to raise again. He forces them back down. There are two karts on the screen, one of which has just crashed into the same wall three times in a row. Tony is definitely in the room, he’s not having some kind of caregiver deprivation psychotic break. He looks up. Takes him in. 

He’s not proud to say he’s almost disappointed to see that Tony looks good. Some innate, insecure thing, some desire to see that Tony needs him and has been going equally insane at the distance. Instead, the time away does seem to have done him good. His hair is clean and gelled, his clothes neat and casual formal. He smiles back, and it’s not even the press smirk. Even more so, there’s some colour back in his face and while Steve couldn’t say if he’s gained any weight, he certainly doesn’t look as though he's lost any more precious pounds. 

It’s picture perfect. Just two friends playing a game like nothing ever happened, and when Clint bashes into him with a shoulder after Tony’s kart idles into the wall yet again, he utters a quick “hey” to Steve and then turns his focus back to the screen, fingers flying over the controller. 

Steve waits a moment, then walks behind the couch (he is not risking Clint’s wrath for the crime of blocking his eyeline during a vicious Mario Kart takedown) to sit in the armchair, resting the sketchpad on his lap. He’s not sure what he had planned to work on when he headed down here, but there’s a new and obvious subject matter now, and with their position mainly static, it's the closest he’ll ever get to still life posing. 

For the first little while, Tony shoots him a look every minute or so, maybe feeling the same stagnant weight of the three day isolation in the air as Steve does, or just unused to close studying. Steve tries to reduce his glances, sketching out the roughest of lines to get their positioning down first. It seems to work. When he next dares to look up, Tony is fully absorbed in the game, much to Clint’s dismay and the restructuring of the leaderboard. He adds new lines in decisive graphite - the little dip in Tony’s cheek as he grins in victory, Clint’s slack-jawed look of horror as he falls victim to a strategically placed toadstool. 

It really is a classic tableau, and it’s only as Steve begins to fill in the finer details, safe in the knowledge that Tony has forgotten about his secondary role as art subject, that he starts to see the evidence of something not quite right about it all. A little dash of 4b against the lines of his neck shows the tension there, the stiff mass of his hair solid and unmoving as though professionally sprayed into place. When Steve goes to add the wrinkles in the clothes, he finds almost none. Pressed. He honestly didn’t know Tony owned an iron. There’s something just slightly off, a synthetic type of feeling. He could peel this Tony off of a glossy magazine cover, if it wasn’t for the puffy skin under his eyes, he hopes the mark of a sleepless night if only because the only other alternative would be a crying fit. 

Speaking of. 

“Oh that’s just not fair.” Clint exclaims, throwing down the remote, and this time it's definitely more of a child whine than a man-child whine. 

Tony’s visage cracks, panic creeping into his expression as he snaps his head to stare at him. 

“Okay, I think that’s enough MarioKart.” Steve says quickly, dropping the sketchbook to intervene before disaster can start.

“Clint? Where’s Phil?”

“Office.” Clint replies grumpily, staring intently at his own crossed arms. “Tony was cheating!” 

“I don’t think he was,” Steve placates, “Anyways, what about Tasha? You know you’re meant to tell someone if you’re feeling little, buddy.” 

Sitting directly in front of Clint (every book ever says get on the child’s level, it's not normally a thing with littles, but with Steve supersoldier height, he’s found the advice to be invaluable), Steve can actually feel Tony tense slightly next to him. 

“Mission. And Bruce is at a conference.” 

Steve has to stifle a smile. Clint’s so pouty that the R’s are being distorted far more than they would normally be - ‘Bwuce’ and ‘confewence’. He doesn’t point it out. Just asking for trouble. 

“Empty house, huh?” He says sympathetically. Tony’s ‘spontaneous’ reappearance is suddenly making a lot more sense. 

“Yeah.” Clint says, sounding so truly miserable it's impossible not to feel sorry for him. You’d think the world was ending, with the finality he imbued in the words. 

“Well, I’m not up to much today, how about we chill for a while until your Daddy gets back?”

“Can I color?” Clint says, eyes lighting up as he looks over at Steve’s supplies greedily. Internally Steve winces. That’s another Jerry’s Arterama trip in his future. 

“Sure, it’s nearly lunch though, so how about you color for an episode of octonauts and then we have some food.”

“Yeah, okay.” Clint says, bouncing up and down slightly on the coach seat. This is what Steve loves so much about caregiving - one moment, the pits of despair, the next, simple joy. Easy fix. 

“Is that okay with you Tony?” He asks, and Tony startles at being spoken to. 

“Uh, yeah, sure, whatever makes the kid happy.” He says, shifting to lean back and run a hand through his hair, wincing as it gets stuck in all the product. 

Steve can’t help but find the phrasing telling. “The kid.” Like he can’t help but put distance between them. He can also see Clint just itching to object to this classification, but with an impressive show of self restraint for what he would estimate is a 6 year old, he holds back. Mentally, he breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn’t know what Clint, the first person Tony has reached out to and the only other little on the team, declining that he’s a kid and rejecting the very idea of headspace would do to Tony but he really can’t imagine it would be good. 

“Alrighty then, it’s a plan. Here you go.” He says, placing the art supplies on the coffee table. Clint gleefully slides off the couch to start rifling. “Jarvis, can you play octonauts? Just pick up where we left off.” 

“With pleasure, Captain.” 

Steve snags the StarkPad off of the coffee table in lieu of having the art supplies, only realising that Tony was probably using it at some point once he’s halfway through some paperwork he’s been putting off (because it shouldn’t be allowed to be called paperwork if it can only be done on a screen with miniscule buttons). He looks up, ready to apologise, but Tony is studying the tv with a complicated expression on his face, head cocked to one side. 

Belatedly, he remembers that this was one of little Tony’s shows. Shit. Tony doesn’t seem offended or upset though, rather just confused. When he spots Steve looking, he quickly shakes his head and grabs at a piece of paper from the coffee table. Shrugging, Steve returns to the form. Tony is not a shy person, if he wanted the tablet he would ask, or use any of the million screens he seemed to have constant access to. 

Steve quickly gets absorbed in the monotonous process; it takes him at least triple the amount of time to complete anything like this than it does for the others. They seem to just know where each of the keys is, whereas he spends an upsetting amount of time simply hunting for a single letter. Tony used to constantly remind him that he could just dictate to Jarvis, but it feels like cheating, somehow. He won’t ever learn if he doesn’t try. He’s surprised to hear the ending credits of the episode start running, and even more so when he looks up to see Tony scrawling intently on the piece of paper precariously balanced on his knees, back hunched close to the page. While Clint has gone straight for the Copic markers and seems intent on causing maximum damage to both his hands and hoodie cuffs, Tony has opted for the pastels. He doesn’t seem to notice the attention at all any more. 

“Uncle Steve, I’m not done, can we have one more episode?” 

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Steve says without thinking, unwilling to disturb Tony’s drawing, and then nearly face palms. ‘One more episode’ always turns into ‘one more’ and ‘one more’ with Clint, and now he’s shown he is vulnerable to negotiation. 

Clint seems just as surprised by this decision as he is, punching the air with a screech of “yes!”. Tony barely twitches, and the new episode rolls on. Steve returns to his screen. Ten minutes later, and one awful form of five is complete. He sets the tablet down, looking towards the others. For a brief moment, his heart skips when he sees Tony is no longer on the couch, but then, as his gaze switches automatically to find Clint, and finds not one, but two forms sprawled out on the rug in front of the coffee table. Clint is leaning back against the couch, engrossed in the show, but Tony is sat frog-legged, one arm possessively wrapped around the paper to protect it from prying eyes, and the other hand still scribbling. 

Steve tilts his head. Something about it…

“Uncle Steve! Look!” Clint crows, neon colored parchment suddenly in his face. Steve rears back, trying to grab the paper, but Clint just waves it more energetically, giggling as Steve feigns more difficulty catching it than is truly realistic with his reflexes. 

“I can’t look if you don’t let me.” He teases, and Clint lets him grab a corner. 

“It’s us!” 

It’s the tower, complete with the sign - “avengrs”, in this case. On the grass (purple, of course), a medley of stick figures stand. Steve is pretty sure the blue one is him, the one with long hair must be Natasha as Thor appears to be riding a miscellaneous animal, what with Clint being at that age where if a drawn animal has four legs it could be anything from a dragon to a giraffe. Bruce is stood next to Natasha, denoted by the lab coat, despite a green figure that is obviously intended to be the hulk clinging to the side of the tower king-kong style, but far be it from him to police artistic license. Coulson is easy, because there's a label above him that says Phil, and one next to that that seems to say “daddy” but has been aggressively scribbled out. There’s a heart under the “phil” label, like an apology for the harshness. That makes the smaller figure next to the roughly drawn swings Clint, but what confuses him is the even smaller figure on one of the seats, being pushed. 

It takes a moment, but when he catches the little dot of blue in the centre, he gets it. 

Abruptly, he really feels for Clint. He’s not the only one wanting for something that is so close but not quite there.They all do their best, but the nature of their work means Clint really doesn’t have an opportunity to meet other littles, and now there’s one right next to him, and he still can’t play. 

With a surge of affection, Steve declares “mac and cheese for lunch, I think.” Clint’s favourite. He whoops and bounds into the kitchen, so that’s the ‘one more’ problem sorted.

He gathers up his things to take to the kitchen, but on the way out, just can’t help himself. 

“What are you drawing Tony?” He asks, genuinely curious, trying to peer over his shoulder. Tony quickly flips the paper though, hand clenching around the oil pastel. 

“Just schematics.” He says, flashing a decidedly strained looking smile. “Nothing you need to worry yourself about yet.” 

Steve aggressively curses himself out silently in dismay as he watches Tony crumple the page into his pants pocket. Way to ruin a moment of peace, Rogers. He doesn’t say anything else, trying to avoid his foot-in-mouth disease, instead walking into the kitchen to start on the food, relieved when he doesn’t hear Tony stand up. He doesn’t want to jump straight into an interrogation or another intense discussion, but he also doesn’t want Tony to vanish again. The best middle ground would be to spend some time together, just as adults, and then segue into their next steps at a point that feels the least charged. He doesn’t want to assault the man with headspace stuff the second he emerges. 

Clint is just about old enough to be an actually useful helper with small tasks like the cheese grating, and lunch comes along quickly. He’s plating it up into two bowls for himself and a plastic minecraft themed one for Clint, when a quiet voice rings from the den. 

“Can I have some?”

Steve startles, so focussed on making sure Clint didn’t burn down the kitchen or cut his fingers off that he’d almost forgotten Tony, silent in the lounge. Caregiver blinders. Speaking of, Tony appears from around the corner, hesitating at the edge of the wall, half in-half out of the kitchen. 

“Yeah, Tones, of course.” He says softly, reaching for a bowl. His hand hesitates over the selection. It could just be wishful thinking. It probably is. But Tony doesn’t seem entirely adult. 

“I’ve got that, Cap.” Tony says, putting a hand on his shoulder to move him out of the way and grabbing a plain white porcelain pasta dish. 

His voice is much more assured now, and he quickly serves himself a portion. Steve shakes his head. He needs to stop projecting. 

They all sit down for the food, Clint somehow managing to keep up a constant spiel of nothingness even as he shovels food into his mouth at an alarming pace. Steve only takes notice when he stops. It is never, ever a good sign when Clint goes quiet. 

Clint is looking at Tony consideringly, his head tilted to one side. Then, with eyes too sweet to be authentic, he turns his gaze to Steve. 

“Can you feed me, please?” He asks, saccharine. Tony’s eyes widen as his head whips around to stare at him. Steve’s eyebrows raise sceptically. He has never seen Clint, even at his absolute youngest, request to be fed. He’s witnessed multiple full scale tantrums at the prospect of not being allowed to use ‘big boy’ cutlery but it has never gone in the other direction. Clint’s eyes flick back to Tony. 

Ah. 

As subtly as he can, he shakes his head at Clint, gaze turning disapproving. He’s not sure why Tony decided now is the time to emerge, but he’s pretty certain it isn’t to have Clint con him into regression. He simply cannot imagine that going well for anyone. 

Clint pouts, but doesn’t push it, stabbing his fork viciously into the pasta. On his next bite, Tony fumbles the fork, dropping it with a clatter to the ground. 

He curses under his breath, ducking under the table to grab it, and bashing the top of his head on the table as he tries to re-emerge. Steve waits for him to brush it off, clamber up with a grin, but instead he just… stays there, sitting on the floor, gripping the fork with a fist. Quickly, Steve walks over. 

“Tony?” He questions, running a hand over the top of his head and finding nothing. 

Tony leans his head back into the touch, so it can’t be too painful. He stays silent. 

“Tones?” Steve questions again, softer, crouching down to his level. “You good?”

Tony turns hazy eyes to face him, blinks long. 

“Uh… yeah,” he says, shaking his head slightly and moving just far away enough to put distance between his hair and Steve’s hand. “Sorry. Butterfingers.” He offers a smile, but he looks dazed. 

Steve frowns. “You sure you don’t need to get that checked out?” He asks, pointing to his head. 

“Don’t think so. Could you…” He motions. “Uh, check? Please?” 

Obediently, Steve digs his fingers back into his hair. The gelled style has been absolutely ruined by now. Carefully, he runs his fingertips over Tony’s scalp, searching for any bumps. As he presses down with more pressure, Tony makes a noise so quiet only superhearing could pick it up, and he very nearly pulls back entirely, scared he’s hit a tender spot, but instead, Tony is yet again pushing back into the touch. He performs this makeshift assessment for far longer than he truly needs to, just enjoying the trusting weight of Tony’s skull in his palms. 

When he does withdraw, Tony doesn’t say anything, just blinking up at him heavily. 

“Come on Tones.” He says, taking his hand and helping him up and onto the chair. 

“Can you finish that?” He asks, pointing at the mostly full bowl. 

It takes Tony a second, but he nods, half looking like he’s going to fall directly into it. Steve, deeming this a very real risk, settles into the seat between him and Clint. 

Clint, who rather looks like the cat that got the cream. He opens his mouth, grinning, but Steve lifts a finger up to his lips, silently praying Clint won’t comment. 

Clint shuts his mouth, looking significantly displeased about it, and grumpily turns back to his food. He doesn’t seem hurt though, so Steve turns his attention back to Tony, who is staring at the cutlery like he’s never seen it before. 

Slowly, he picks up the fork, gripping the whole thing with his fist, and stabs it lacklusterly into the food. Somehow, it misses every piece of food and falls with a clatter into the bowl. To Steve’s horror, Tony’s eyes start to well up as he stares at it. 

“Hey! Hey, it’s okay, it’s alright, you’re feeling a bit-” little, is what he’s thinking, as if it hasn’t become obvious enough. He doesn’t want to freak him out though, so he settles on “-tired, right?” 

Tony nods, face creasing, and he really does look miserable about it. 

“That’s okay. Everyone gets tired sometimes, right Clint?” 

“Mhm!” He agrees enthusiastically, mouth full of mac and cheese. 

“How about I help, is that okay?”

Hesitantly, Tony nods, humming. Clint’s face has somehow become even more smug. It is wrong to resent littles, but Steve will most definitely be having a conversation with Coulson after this. A certain ‘little bird’ is gonna have something to answer for later. For now… maybe he can’t help but feel just slightly grateful, as he loads up the fork with food and Tony moves towards it eagerly, mouth open like a baby bird. 

He seems to be slipping further under - by the time the food is gone (the first time he’s seen Tony clean a plate) his blinks are long enough for the open phase to be mistaken for the event, and he’s swaying slightly in the chair, eyes glazed over. Steve is desperate to steady him somehow, it feels wrong to have him sit up there by himself, but he can’t tell how much of adult Tony remains. 

Maybe it’s a silly concern. It does seem to be very little, if any.

“Just gonna clean these up.” He murmurs, collecting his own and Tony’s bowls and peeling Clint away from his, which he’s doing a dedicated job at trying to clean with his tongue alone. 

He’s only just turned to the sink to start the washing up when he hears a soft thump, distinctly that of a body hitting the ground. He turns in panic, but there’s no immediate problem to be spotted. Then, his shirt is tugged insistently downwards. Tony has one hand fisted in the material, but when he sees Steve looking down, he lifts both arms up, the universal gesture for ‘up’. Steve gets over his surprise quickly, hoisting him up. Tony buries his head into his shoulder. His breath is hot and tangible against the bare skin there; it makes something deep and primal in Steve light up like fireworks. 

“Ank’a.” He mumbles into the t-shirt. 

It takes Steve a moment. 

‘Thank you.’

“Oh baby,” he whispers, bobbing both of them up and down. “Thank you.”

He probably owes Clint.