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Chapter Text

Tony Stark was autistic, but nobody knew.

Which was fine, of course, until the Avengers moved in.

There were strangers and spies in his house, watching his every movement with their beady, analytical eyes. It wouldn't be long until one of them figured it out and his entire world would come crashing down.

He could imagine their reactions

"Autism? You're a liability!"

"How do we know we can count on you?"

"Freak"

"Liar"

"Re-"

"Tony! Tony?"

Fuck. Tony's head jolted up, fingers absent-mindedly tapping the glass table in front of him.

He'd zoned out. Again.

Great going, Tony.

"Hmm? Yeah, what?" He asked, only partially there.

"This is a debrief. You're meant to be listening. This is important!" Steve reprimanded him and Tony flinched at his harsh tone. It reminded him so much of the man who didn't deserve to be his father.

"Listen to me, Tony!"

"Look at me. Look at me when I talk to you."

"Put that down, Tony!"

"Quit squirming and listen up."

A pain shot through his face just thinking about Howard. The remnants of a slap that would never go away.

"TONY" Steve was yelling now and Tony looked up again.

He had to dismiss this. Brush it off. Ignore it or they'll realise you don't know what you're doing.

"Yes, dear?" He responded, earing a chuckle from Bruce and a glare from Fury.

"Can you connect Jarvis up with our earpieces? He can relay strategies and important information."

Finally, something he was interested in.

"Might have to do a little tinkering. I'll need to redesign them to handle a file size as large as Jarvis' communication software, but I could try the same tech as in my suit. I'll downsize it, make the battery bigger to handle the load, do some testing." He paused briefly, reading their silence as an invitation to continue.

He was leaning at the edge of his seat, hands rhythmically tapping the table and his foot beating the ground to the tune of some AC/DC song.

After a few minutes more of rambling about the logistics of it all, Tony realised he was standing, pacing around the room with his hands waving around while he relayed his unfiltered thoughts.

"Talk about speaking with your hands," Clint muttered.

The team chuckled and Tony stopped pacing, hands dropping to his side.

Steve sighed. "Tony, can you do it or not?"

"Uh, yeah," he replied, awkwardly moving back to his seat and resting his chin on his hands.

Stupid stupid stupid. He'd let himself speak for nearly ten minutes. Ten minutes in which the team had been subject to a complete mockery of their intelligence.

Steve continued on about formation, strategy, communication, blah blah blah. Tony found his mind wandering back to his plans for the earpieces, blueprints appearing in his head as he visualised exactly how he might fit enough storage into the small pieces of technology.

What Tony hadn't realised, however, was that he was staring directly at Bruce who was across the table. His team member tilted his head with a confused look, waving his hands around to communicate "what the hell are you looking at?". Tony ignored it and moved his line of sight to the wall behind the Avenger.

"Would you stop that?" A voice pierced Tony's bubble, sharp and clearly frustrated.

He looked around and saw everyone at the table staring at them, realising he'd done something wrong.

"Stop what?" he asked innocently, genuinely confused.

Natasha, who was seated next to him, gently brushed a hand over his leg and broke it from its bouncing trance.

"Shoot, sorry," he apologised.

"Anyways, this new formation will... ahem... this new... Tony."

His leg was bouncing again, hitting the underside of the meeting table and rattling the glasses of water that sat atop it. Tony scrunched up his hands, trying to make it stop. He succeeded, earning an exasperated sigh from Steve before the star-spangled man with a plan continued. His nails pressed into his palms making him painfully aware he was in a meeting not alone in his room. If this was what he needed to keep himself grounded, he would push through.

Nat leant over to him, whispering, "You good?"

"Yeah," he responded. "Bored outa my mind and kinda tired, but fine."

The spy sighed. "Look, I know we all have ways of coping with what happened in New York two weeks ago, but try not to be disruptive, ok?"

New York? Coping? This had nothing to do with New York... although as long as Nat didn't figure out he was stimming he'd take whatever excuse he could get.

"Yeah. Agreed." - he didn't agree - "New York. That's it." - that wasn't it - "Sorry," he said - he was in fact genuinely sorry.

He suffered through the rest of the debrief with some concerned looks from Fury as he tapped his foot and hummed. The team exchanged glances and rolled their eyes.

"Classic Tony," Clint muttered, a remark met with a glare from Bruce.

The scientist whispered something to him about "... handling things... wormhole... New York... give him a break...".

Tony stared daggers at the table.

The meeting drew to a close after what seemed like days but was likely only a few hours (two hours and 43 minutes, according to JARVIS. Tony hadn't asked). As the team began to file out of the room, Tony stayed seated still thinking about his blueprints. Steve lagged behind and waved his hands at the billionaire.

"Stark. We're leaving."

Silence.

"Stark."

He was presented with a dismissive grunt.

THUNK.

Steve had slammed his hands down on the table.

Tony flinched and he jumped, head snapping up. His hands rose to his ears but he stopped them midway towards their destination. They hovered in thin air, frozen, as Tony tried to think up an excuse. He eventually looked at his hands, murmured, "oh," and chuckled placing them down by his side.

Tony stood up and shuffled past Steve (who was simply staring at him with a mixture of annoyance and... was that concern? No, knowing Steve it was probably also annoyance) into the foyer. The team was stepping into a SHEILD van back to the tower but Tony decided against following after what had happened during the meeting.

He instead called Mark IV and took a running leap off a bridge nearby, caught by the comforting metal folding around him. He flew up and away in the direction of the tower, hoping he'd get back before the others so he could have some time to himself.

Chapter Text

Bruce was probably the only Avenger who genuinely liked Tony Stark. Or, at least, he tolerated him. Tony had no idea how to tell the difference. But at least he didn't talk loud like Steve, pity him like Nat, or genuinely hate him like Clint.

They'd been bonding over their shared passion for science throughout the past week while Tony hid in the workshop to avoid embarrassing himself in front of the team. Again. It seemed Dr Banner hadn't yet figured out exactly why Tony was spending all his time in the workshop, or at least he didn't talk about it. He liked that.

They fooled around together, making up particle theory-themed one-liners, or thermonuclear physics-inspired knock-knock jokes. Passing the time so Tony didn't have to think about being normal every day of the week.

On the fourth day, Bruce bolted down the stairs waving a piece of equation paper in his hand, screaming "I cracked it! Tony, I cracked it!".

"Let me see!" Tony said excitedly.

Bruce held out the paper which had equations scrawled all over it, and Tony grabbed it, studying the sheet with a sparkle in his eyes. And then he froze.

Bruce was staring at his now empty hands, also frozen.

Tony Stark didn't like to be handed things. Unfamiliar objects could have a weird texture or a gross feeling, they could be sticky or hot. Then why had he let Bruce hand him the piece of paper so casually?

Perhaps he trusted him. Trusted him not to hand Tony gross textures. Trusted him to judge their feel before he offered them over.

That was plausible, as during the past four days Tony had dropped four pencils, three sheets of iron, and one beaker full of acid because of their texture. He grinned. Bruce was learning quickly.

"We good?" Tony eventually asked.

"Yeah, Yeah, we're good," Bruce confirmed. He went to pull the billionaire into one of those initiatory bro hugs but Tony pulled away, instead offering a fist bump. The scientist shrugged. "Good enough."

"Now let me see those equations!"

......................................................

It was no secret Banner was an excellent cook. In fact, he was assigned to make dinner every Friday for that exact reason, each time concocting some new delicious creation sent from the heavens above. The week earlier he'd made the most amazing pizza (which Tony surprisingly ate even though he didn't really like bread-y foods), and this week Tony had a request.

"Tacos?" Bruce asked, clarifying.

"Yeah, if that's alright?" Tony was already regretting the decision. His mind ran through every possibility. Every answer he might have to deflect. Every way he could stop Bruce from getting mad. Every-

"Sure."

"I'm sorry, what?" Tony's words came out sharper - more hostile - than he'd anticipated. He cringed at his tone.

"Uh, sure? I can make tacos if that's what you'd like." Bruce narrowed his eyes. Was he mad? Disappointed? Annoyed? Tony had no idea what he was thinking. "Are you feeling ok?"

The question struck a nerve. "Yes, yes! I'm ok! Tip top shape, right Jarvis?"

"Actually, Sir..." came a voice from the speakers which Tony promptly cut off.

"Don't need your input, Jarvis!" Tony lifted a hand to silence the AI.

Nat's voice called from the communal lounge. "Could you please stop yelling, Stark? Trying to watch a film here!"

He paused briefly. He hadn't been aware his volume had reached and surpassed the socially acceptable limit.

"Put the subtitles on!" He called back.

"I would but Clint'll kill me."

"Damn right I will," remarked the man in question, also in the communal lounge.

..............................

That Friday, Tony was filled with uncontrollable excitement in anticipation for his second favourite meal ever (aside from cheeseburgers). He'd already planned all the toppings he would add, he made sure to come early to the table so he'd be able to claim 'his' seat (second from the right, the only chair without the squeaky legs). His outfit was decided on days in advance (old jeans in case he spilled fillings, a fairly decent band shirt for comfort).

Today was the day.

Everything was going to plan. Tony was seated with the team, Bruce probably setting out the toppings in the kitchen. The smell of spicy taco mince flooded the room, one of the only sensory experiences Tony actually enjoyed.

Bruce carried the tray of toppings over to the table and set it down in the middle, everyone oohing and ahhing.

Tony - sweet, naive Tony - was caught off guard. The tacos had been pre-filled. He wasn't able to assemble them to his liking.

No matter, Tony told himself. I can deal with that.

And he could. He was a grown-ass adult. So he lifted a taco off the tray, raising it like a glass in a toast.

"To Bruce's magnificent cooking skills!" he cheered and the others followed suit.

Biting down, the crunch of the shell contrasted with the softer mince, spices activating Tony's senses and playing a merry little tune on his tongue. It was just... the way... he liked it...

What was that? That squishy, slimy substance his teeth had made contact with. What was it?

Tony froze and his eyes widened. For a few seconds, he stayed still, trying to hold back the inevitable reaction. Maybe if he drank some water he would get the taste out of his mouth. Maybe if he clawed his palms hard enough his mind would focus on something else. Maybe...

Nope. Too much yuck.

Tony gagged, standing up abruptly and scrambling away from the table. He left little red drops on the back of Steve's chair as his slightly bloodied hands made contact with it briefly. Steve didn't notice, evidently too wrapped up in the fact that Tony had just abandoned the meal with a disgusted look on his face.

Tony didn't even want to know what he'd just done. How badly the team probably now hated him.

Lucky for him, the bathroom was close by. He rinsed his mouth out, the water barely washing away the disgusting stain left on his tongue.

Cucumber.

Gosh, he should have told Bruce. He could've. Truly. But he couldn't go back now - they'd be annoyed, angry even, and rightfully so. But they'd also be confused and confusion meant questions and questions meant... answers he didn't want to think about.

Like why the hell he'd just abandoned group dinner night over a cucumber?

And no doubt single-handedly ruined his friendship with Bruce. Hooray, great going Tony. He put his hands over his head and drew in a sharp breath, slowly dropping until he was sitting with his back against the wall.

Chapter Text

Dread sunk deep into Tony's heart when he saw he was out of food. And by food he meant snacks. And by snacks, he meant packets of Cheetos gathering dust in his workshop pantry, the room in which he had locked himself for the past 24 hours.

To get to his room he'd have had to go up the stairs, conveniently in view of the dining area. He couldn't face the others so he'd retreated to his workshop accessible by the elevator out of sight of the table.

The pieces of his secret were slowly beginning to fall into place. All his subtle mannerisms, his remarks, his strange habits, the team had seen them all. And although the pieces were excusable on their own, together they likely had drawn some suspicion.

So Tony was now curled up on a couch rolling a cog up and down his still-red palms. They stung, an aching pain he was all too familiar with, but he deserved it.

He was feeling everything and nothing at the same time, numb to the world around him but painfully aware of every single torturous sound and motion. He hugged his weighted blanket tighter.

But then hunger came prowling.

"Sir, your blood sugar is approaching the lowest safe level."

"Jarvis, buddy. What did we say about the speakers?" Tony winced at the AI's voice, loud and sharp.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but you've not paid attention to the heads-up display in the past three hours. I had to bypass protocol. I suggest you-"

"Shhhhhh I know what you suggest. And I will."

As soon as his legs started moving. He just had to move. Get up off the couch. Nope. Hunger and exhaustion warred inside his subconscious for a good 20 minutes during which Jarvis continually berated him with statistics.

"Alright, I'll go!" Tony finally snapped, motivated enough to lift himself off the couch and shuffle towards the elevator, cog still rolling between his palms. He took a deep breath when he entered the elevator, hands hovering over the button for the communal floor. And then he took another breath. And another. And five more in rapid succession. And then the breaths stopped being deep and became short and shallow. He clung to the elevator rails, his cog falling to the floor.

"Deep breaths, Sir." Jarvis was no help.

Tony grimaced, physically unable to bring himself to press the button. The elevator doors closed and he was left alone in a glass box, heart pounding so hard he could hear it. Jarvis was giving him suggestions but the words slid off him like raindrops over a windscreen. Even the air was vibrating and the bright elevator lights were loud as thunder. To an outsider, he'd simply be pressed against the wall breathing heavily but inside his mind was spinning. He had to get himself together. He was Tony Stark. Stark men were made of iron. A little fear shouldn't stop him! And yet it did, which puzzled him. Perhaps it was because he wasn't getting enough outlets to be himself, constantly masking in his own home. Maybe his hunger was amplifying his symptoms? Could his brain be broken? If there was an explanation, - a problem - he could fix it! He was a busted machine and all he needed to do was find the line of messed-up code. And then he would be cured. Normal. Able to do simple tasks like pressing that DAMN button.

He desperately clung to the idea he could be fixed. It calmed him. Gave him hope he might not be this way forever. That this wasn't his fate: destined to need special treatment, broken forever, and destroying everyone around him. Yet Tony, who had never once sought professional help for his plethora of problems, would obviously find the answer himself. His issues were his own, not for others to have to deal with. And regardless, he was tough. He was a man. He didn't need help let alone deserve it.

But then the elevator was moving. Tony looked up; he'd not pressed any buttons.

Shit.

The call was coming from Steve's room. Tony stumbled around, his fingers trying and failing to reach the emergency stop button. The numbers flicked by: 9 floors left, 7 floors left, 3, 2...

*Ding*

The doors opened to reveal Tony frozen, clutching onto the elevator rails just enough that it wasn't noticeable but still far tighter than the average person. Steve's eyebrows raised as he looked Tony up and down, the man in question staring right back at him with the most mortified expression in the history of expressions.

"Are you okay, man? Like, seriously," Steve instead asked.

Jarvis began to speak but Tony glared at a security camera. The AI promptly shut up. Perhaps if he stayed as still as possible Steve would forget he was there? Besides, his legs weren't cooperating so he didn't really have a choice.

"You've been acting super strange, Tony. I knew you'd be like your father," - Tony cringed. He'd not called Howard his father in a long while - "smart, isolated, sarcastic, but even he wasn't this peculiar."

Tony began fidgeting with the cog, paying attention to Steve's words but looking elsewhere. He could handle a little criticism - he wasn't made of glass. It was better than anger.

"Are you even listening? Look at me!"

Tony flinched. He stared at Steve's forehead for a moment, remembering to blink but not too fast, remembering to look away every once and a while, now he was looking at his nose but... shit he'd passed the standard limit for eye contact. Look away! Look away! He glanced away.

And subsequently missed half the words Steve had said in the past minute.

Focus, Tony.

"-and you owe it to the team to at least function like a normal human being for once in a while. Just... take care of yourself. The world is literally counting on it."

And with that Steve pressed the 'close doors' button on the elevator, adding "I'll just catch it after you're done," before Tony was again left on his own. He cleared his throat, patting down his hair and acted as if that hadn't happened. If he knew Steve well enough, the man out of time would pass it off as Tony being Tony. And regardless, the man was too self-righteous and noble and higgledy-piggledy to go about gossiping. But deep down his stomach was sinking. Steve had a point. The world was counting on him to be able to function and he owed it to his friends to make up for his mistakes. He put on a determined expression (or at least as close as he could get) and clicked the button for the communal living area.

.......................................

The elevator dinged to announce Tony's arrival and the doors slowly slid open. He slipped the cog into his back pocket. Jarvis had told him who was in the room beforehand: Bruce, Nat, and Clint. He was shaky as he exited the elevator to join them. Nat and Clint were playing pool on the far side of the living space and Bruce was sitting on the couch surrounded by holographic screens and books on gamma radiation.

"Ah, the hobbit emerges from his den. To what do we owe the pleasure?" Nat called from the pool table, not looking up and hitting three balls into the same pocket with ease. She twirled her cue stick and leaned against the table, eyeing Tony and Bruce. "Boy, this is gonna be good."

Tony ignored her teasing, too focused on himself.

Back straight. Chest out. Back straight. Chest out.

Fuck what was he doing with his hands?

Back straight. Chest out. Hands down. Back straight... back straight. No no no, now he was fiddling with his shirt. Just be normal.

Bruce was looking at him expectantly as if he'd just asked a question. Oh no, he had. What did he say? Well, for starters, Tony had to keep walking. He navigated the mess of books and computer screens and sat down across from his friend. His friend who was still looking at him expectantly. What was he meant to say?

"Uhh, yeeeeessss?" he guessed, reaching a hand out into the void and hoping to grasp something for context.

"Ooof," Nat said from across the room. Tony winced. That didn't sound good.

"Okay, go on," Bruce motioned to him to keep talking. When he didn't reply in a few seconds he added, "Apologise?"

"Yes! Right, that's it!" Finally some context. "I'm really sorry about everything. I... dislike cucumber. A lot. So it surprised" - horrified - "me when I tasted it in my meal the other night. I, well, I acted poorly and it's 100% my fault" - he forced himself to believe that- "and I'll try" - and spectacularly fail - "not to do that next time. I swear."

"Blame it on the cucumber. Nice move," Nat's commentary kept coming.

"Thank you?" Tony replied.

"Sarcasm, moron," she joked.

After a little time to think, Bruce finally spoke.

"Don't worry, Tony, it's not your fault. I probably should've asked if anyone had sensitivities. It's water under the bridge."

"What? Why do people say that anyway? Water under a bridge is just water with a shadow over it. You can't see it but it's still there. That's not a good analogy!" he began to ramble and stopped, collecting himself. "I mean, thank you."

"You're weird Tony."

"I get that a lot."

Chapter Text

Someone gave Tony a clicky pen.

Big mistake.

He was sitting at a long, wooden table, the rest of the Avengers (minus Thor) seated alongside him looking at the large screen at the end of the table. It had some basic information about their mission on it. The enemy (ten hostiles according to thermal imaging), their weapons (standard-issue stolen Chitauri particle rifles), etc. It was a typical ambush, get in and out quick, take down some Chitauri weapons dealers, and destroy their product. They'd done this before so Tony wasn't sure why they were doing yet another briefing.

Tony clicked his pen, a practised grin plastered across his face to make the others believe he was trying to annoy them instead of stimming. Which was only half a lie - he enjoyed annoying them, watching them squirm. Clint looked his way and pointed at the screen as if motioning to Tony to focus up. Which was complete bullshit. His eyes may have been on the roof and his swivel chair was violently spinning yet he was, contrary to popular belief, listening. He just had a different way of doing so.

Missions like these were difficult for him. He took a Prozac this morning to ward off long-buried memories of alien weapons and wormholes yet he felt like he was standing on mist, too easily blown away by the lightest of breezes, dropping him down, down, down, into flashbacks and terror. In other words, he was walking on thin ice. But he wasn't thinking about it. No. Not at all. He wasn't thinking about grasping the nuke, pushing it up, up, up, desperately calling Pepper but having no one pick up, no one there, just him in his suit alone in the empty void of space not ready to die but letting go anyway.

And now he was thinking about it.

Every time.

Luckily most of the team was too focused on the screen that Steve was so passionately pointing at to notice Tony's shuddering breaths. He tried to slow his breathing which only made it worse and he gripped the sides of his seat so hard his knuckles went white.

Of course, this would happen now in front of the entire team. His brain was wired against him, fighting to make his life hell. Jarvis had told him to see a doctor after analysing his MRI. Tony had, obviously, refused. This was just like the palladium problem last year. He could figure it out himself and if he couldn't he deserved it for not being smart enough.

That thought pattern only made the attack worse. His breath was coming in short gasps even though he was telling himself to breathe, breathe, breathe! Nat glanced back at him. Oh no, he was making a scene. He shakily grabbed a glass of water, clearing his throat and managing to gulp down a little. The icy cold water pulled him from the depths of his attack and he felt like he was coming up for air after nearly drowning, gasping but not too loudly so the team wouldn't hear. It was a delicate balance. Hard to master. Luckily Steve talked loud and there was a particularly intense discussion going on in the room next to them. And Nat and Clint's shared glance wasn't about him. Neither was Steve's distracted faltering or Bruce's quick wrap-up of the briefing. Because it couldn't. They couldn't notice. He was too well practised at this.

...................................

All of a sudden Tony was outside the room walking down the stairwell with the rest of the team. Then he was on the Quinjet with no memory of boarding nor starting the engine. He looked around. Everyone was on board, watching him and waiting to take off. He faltered, confused. He'd gone on autopilot again. Tony had no idea how he'd made it this far without falling down the stairs or bumping into a wall. If he hadn't snapped out he was sure he'd probably crash the Quinjet.

"Tony, do you need the coordinates again?" asked Bruce.

A quick look at the GPS told Tony he'd already entered their destination. On autopilot. How the-

"Tony?"

"Oh, uh, no. All good!" he responded, voice quivering slightly.

With that, Nat stood up from her seat, striding over to Tony. She gave him a look that he had no idea how to read and pried his hands off the controls. He was too foggy to keep his palms facing away and she caught a glance at the scratches on them. Her eyes met his and he looked away.

"Go sit down. Get some rest before we arrive," she whispered.

He nodded, still only half there, and complied. Did she know? Had she realised? Was she giving him special treatment? Because he didn't need it - he was Tony Stark, not a child. He didn't need their pity. He could handle things on his-

Tony collapsed into a seat on the other side of the Quinjet and took some deep breaths. Yeah, he needed this.

Chapter Text

Rock music had a surprisingly calming effect on Tony Stark.

He was still sitting in the corner out of the team's line of sight. An AC/DC song was playing through his earplugs - the same one that had been on repeat over the past six hours because it has that one part that makes his brain tingly. One elbow was rested against some boxes of supplies, his hand in the air moving with the flow of the music. Tony's shoulders moved up and down as he lost himself in the song, swaying side to side. The music drowned out the sound of footsteps coming toward him, his eyes open but not processing anything he sees.

The song paused and Tony's head shot up like a bullet. Nat met his gaze with an emotionless expression.

"Heyyyyyy! Thanks for ruining my moment, Romanoff," he grumbled, taking out his earplugs and slipping them back into their case.

She responded with raised eyebrows. "Landing in five. Get ready."

....................................

Tony, now in his suit, exited the Quinjet and examined the area around him. They were in the parking lot of a seemingly abandoned warehouse in Italy, shrubbery surrounding them and nothing but a dirt road connecting the area to civilisation. The perfect place to make illegal alien weapons. Tony couldn't help but notice there were way more than ten cars in the lot.

"You sure they only found ten hostiles?" he called, suddenly wary.

He was met with silence and a nod from Steve. As they continued to approach the warehouse, he became more and more suspicious. There were way more than 10 cars, a bunch of trucks blocking their line of sight to the only suitable spot to land the Quinjet, and the place was surprisingly quiet for a weapons production site. There should be machinery cranking, saws, welding, and people bustling around the place. He understood they might want a low profile but there were very few machines this silent.

Now that he thought about it, there should be security cameras. Or at least someone on lookout. Something to protect the site from authorities. It all seemed too easy.

"Tony. Don't freeze up. We're not here to stand around," Clint's comment made Tony grit his teeth. Couldn't they see he was thinking?

"He's not frozen. He's... calculating," Nat whispered, putting a hand in front of Steve.

"Get behind that car," he motioned to a car a few steps away. "Now!" Tony barked when they didn't follow his direction.

"What? Tony, care to fill us in?"

He didn't figure out who had said that because a moment later an all too familiar shot rang out. Chitauri weapons.

"Ambush! Defensive positions!" Steve called.

Tony rolled his eyes. How had they not seen it coming?

He flew upwards immediately, remembering the formation, and analysed the situation below.

Nat was dodging blasts, taking down masked men two at a time with her almost robotic moves. Cap used his shield to send blasts back at the hostiles, knocking them down in droves. He fought his way through the swarm but they pushed him back with more advanced weapons. Possibly modified? Clint fired some of the new arrows Tony had designed, keeping the men back.

"Is this a code green? Should i- do you need me to come down?" Bruce radioed in and Tony responded in the negative.

"We can handle this."

Jarvis locked onto the rest of the targets and shoot them all in the legs, neutralising them without killing them.

"All clear everyone," he called, lowering down to the ground.

"What was that?" puffed Steve.

"An ambush," said Nat. "How did you know?"

Tony was silent, trying to calm his spinning mind. The team was safe. The chitauri army was gone. He was going to be fine.

"Didn't you notice? The trucks, the silence, the ease of it all?" He'd thought it was obvious. "The pattern pointed directly to an ambush. What, did none of you do the homework? For goodness sake, we can talk about strategy all livelong day but when it comes to reality, you've gotta notice the details."

Tony liked finding patterns. Putting the clues together, piecing together the puzzle. Evidently, that had paid off today.

"Alright, well let's wrap-"

Steve was cut off as another blast echoed through the parking lot. Four more men in masks ran out of the (now torn to bits) warehouse doors, aiming shots at the team.

"Ready for round two?" Steve said dismissively.

Tony sighed and activated noise cancelling to block out the panic-inducing chitauri weapon noises. "Suppose so."

Tony found the flow of battle relaxing, focusing his attention on the mission instead of the feeling of his clothes or the searingly bright sun. It was almost peaceful. As peaceful as being shot at by people who want to kill you can be. He ran through different tactics in his head, coming across one he'd memorised a few weeks back during a bout of hyperfixation. He flew towards a man at full speed, changing direction as he ran away before seemingly giving up and flying upwards. The man stopped, panting, and Tony took advantage of that, soaring down and snatching the weapon from his hand. The man pulled out a handgun and Tony grabbed his arm, twisting it before grabbing his legs and flinging him into the wall. The man groaned, incapacitated and no longer a threat. Amateurs.

He flew back to the parking lot and saw the team had taken care of the rest. Clint dusted off his hands and turned towards the Quinjet.

"S.H.E.I.L.D will be here in about an hour. They'll bring 'em in," Steve said after glancing at a message on his tablet.

"Awesome. You know, since we're here, I could 100% go for some Italian food today," Nat remarked.

"Any of you tried arancini?" asked Clint.

"No, actually. Is it good?" Steve boarded the Quinjet first, sitting down in a seat near the pilot seat.

"Oh, you have got to try it," said Tony. "Can't believe you've never tried arancini. Definitely not a man of culture, huh?"

Chapter Text

Music was blasting somewhere outside the Avengers tower. People cheered, feet thumping against the floor of whatever apartment they were dancing inside. Chatter. Noise. Some sort of laser machine was projecting beams of light that lit up Tony’s room in neon flashes of red, green, and yellow.
He’d always enjoyed parties, granted he brought noise-reducing earbuds that lowered the volume to a bearable level and wore some form of sunglasses, the latter of which had become a signature part of his look that he wasn’t going to argue with. He looked good in shades. But when a rave came knocking against his window when he wasn’t expecting Tony was never left in good shape.
Hence the weighted blanket that covered his shaking body crumpled in the corner of his room.
Jarvis was softly giving him suggestions: “Please breathe, sir”, “Listen to my voice”, “Count backwards from ten, Sir”, etc. Nothing helped and Tony was surprised Jarvis continued on for so long since he already knew it wouldn’t help. The AI’s voice was laced with concern but thankfully his protocols forbid him from notifying anyone without Tony’s permission.
The rest of the team was downstairs watching some dumb movie Nat had forced onto them during team-building night. The Avengers had only known each other a few weeks so she’d insisted they do these ridiculous movie nights every week to ‘get to know each other’ and ‘bond as a team’ and some other crap Tony really didn't want to put up with. He didn’t need to get to know the others - he’d already read their files and would rather spend his time in his lab without any human interaction. So he’d come back up to his floor and been subsequently hit in the face with the sounds of a thousand partygoers. Perhaps the universe hated him. Perhaps this was punishment for being antisocial. Or perhaps this was just his luck.
Regardless, he was rocking back and forth, shaking in the corner of his room furthest from the window, dry tear tracks running from his eyes to his cheeks like scars from a battle he was too scared to fight.
There was a rustle at the doorframe and Tony didn’t have to look up to know who it was. He was too tired to tell her to leave or try to keep her from seeing what a mess he was. He had no energy left. There was no telling how long Nat had been there. She was a spy; he’d only heard her because she’d wanted to be heard.
“How do I look?” he asked, trying to muster some of his signature nonchalance but failing miserably as his voice cracked.
“Like an absolute wreck, Tony.”
“Ouch. But fair.”
He was still staring directly ahead at the window as she walked in. Perhaps she had noticed him flinch when the lasers from next door shone through the glass or maybe it just bothered her too because she activated the tinting feature on the windows on her way in. Tony breathed a short-lived sigh of relief.
The silence was infinitely loud as Nat leaned against the wall next to him, sliding down until she too was seated. The silence continued to be loud for the next three or so minutes until she shattered it in a tone that made Tony wince.
“You okay?”
It was almost sympathetic. It was sympathetic. Patronising, even.
Tony’s gaze lowered to his feet which were covered by his blue weighted blanket. Printed on one corner was a rainbow infinity sign which he hoped with all his might she wouldn’t recognise. That’d be a shitty way for them to realise.
The noise from the party vibrated through Tony’s body, searing into his eardrums and further quickening his heart rate. The feeling of panic was a deep, sinking one, comparable to being pulled into the depths of the ocean by an invisible chain. He tried to force himself to think straight. His body didn’t have the energy for a meltdown tonight. He’d have to settle for the silent, gloomy, sickening taste of overstimulation. In the process of forming a reply Tony’s words jumbled together in his head, each one harder and harder to force out of his unwilling throat. Eventually, he said something because Nat raised her eyebrows.
“Depends on how you define ‘okay’.”
The words came out in a choked, barely recognisable version of his voice.
“You know how to define it.”
“Then, no.”
A brief silence.
“Why?”
“That's manipulative. I don't want to talk about it.”
Another raised eyebrow. Perhaps she was surprised, or maybe she was gesturing for him to continue. Nevertheless, he stayed silent.
“So, what is it?”
That came as a surprise.
“What’s what?”
“What’s wrong with you?” Nat asked, matter-of-factly. It was less of a question and more of an obligation. Ouch. That stung. Tony hated this.
“That’s manipulative, too.”
Another few minutes of silence.
At least his mind was off the noise. He collected himself enough to shakily grab the earplug case from the table within arms reach, opening it and placing them in his ears. The sweet silence washed over him, muffled shouts now far lower in volume.
“Trying to block me out?” Nat asked after another minute.
Tony didn’t even try to speak, knowing no words would come out regardless. He just shoved the case in her face. She read the pamphlet - something along the lines of ‘designed to block out background noise and keep voices clear’. He didn’t care if she understood or not. Wasn’t his problem.
Gosh, she probably thought he was a freak now. Then again, who didn’t by now? Here he was, an adult man, exposed, raw, and broken, on the brink of a shutdown in front of a colleague making a fool of himself.
A minute went by… again. Nat was a slow reader. Her eyes then darted around the room, scanning, as a spy does. She’d likely pick up on the many lamps littered around (he hated overhead lighting), his three different weighted blankets (one of each colour), and the fidget spinner collection, as well as some other little details. There was a telescope shoved halfheartedly into a closet from a short-lived special interest a few years back and an open packet of bandaids for his scratched-up palms sitting on one of his desks. His bed was still pristine from the last time the cleaners had come through (one, maybe two weeks ago?) as he never slept here. The sun shone through the windows during the mornings and burned his eyeballs out. The couch in his lab was far more inviting.
“What’s… not manipulative?”
Tony scoffed. Natasha already knew the answer to that question.
“I left the team to come here, Tony. We’re worried about you. Please, just give me an answer.” She sighed. “Or not. I’ll figure it out eventually anyways.”
The team? Worried about him? Like shit they were. To them, he was just Tony being Tony: rude and weird. Perhaps that was for the best. The last glimmer of rationality in his mind disagreed. Told him this was his last chance to control how his secret got out. One hand on the wheel still gave him some sort of input, right? Right? Gosh, rational thinking was exhausting.
Although he wasn’t going to get anywhere if he didn't fucking SPEAK. Tony grumbled and forced his nails further in contact with his palms. He didn’t know if he was drawing blood or not. He didn’t care.
“All I’m asking is that you just let me in.”
Tony laughed. It was a haunted, choked-out sound, but a laugh all the same. Nat gave him a confused look. Tony didn’t know why. This was genuinely funny to him. How she didn’t get it. How she didn't see the obvious answer. How she hadn’t even the slightest clue as to why Tony could never do exactly that.
“It’s not that easy,” he eventually said.
“Why?”
“Why?” he echoed. Natasha and her ‘why’ questions. ‘Why’ this and ‘why’ that. “Why do you think? I’m supposed to be Iron Man, not Wet Paper Man.”
He watched Nat stifle a snort, knowing all too well she could have masked it if she wanted to. She was trying to lighten the mood. Tony rolled his eyes. Not cool. The mood was sad and depressing and she’d made it this way the moment she tried to get all sappy about feelings.
“You’re not responsible for my problems. Now leave me alone.”
Why was his heart beating so fast? Why did his stomach feel like it was collapsing in on itself? Why was a hole opening up in the floor, drawing him in, in, in, sinking him further and further into the darkness? Why- fuck. Not now. Now wasn’t the time. Why couldn’t he just deal with one issue at a time? Why, when he’s obviously trying to fight off one problem, does anxiety always come prowling, pouncing, clawing at him? He needed to run, to fight, to get out of here. He shakily stood up, feeling around since apparently his sense of sight had given up on him. Tony wasn’t even listening to whatever crap Natasha was saying to him.
He needed to snap out of this. Water. He needed water. There was a glass on Tony’s bedside table. Cold. Icy cold.
His face was drenched. His sight returned, hazy, clouded in tears he didn’t remember shedding.
He was on the floor. How did he get here?
There was a hand on his shoulder. Whose hand?
Dammit. It flooded back. How long had it been? Half an hour? Five minutes? He wasn’t sure. Probably because there wasn’t any oxygen going to his brain. Oh yeah, he had forgotten to-
“Breathe, Tony. You’ve got to breathe.”
“Yeah, no shit,” he snapped.
“Anything you’d like to tell me?” The sickening sound of pity laced Nat’s every word like drool on the maw of a dog but he finally snapped.
“Probably.”
“Go on.”
“ASD,” he said, the letters slurred together as he tried to get them out as fast as he could before he broke apart or decided against it.
“What?”
Her lack of knowledge betrayed her. The famous Black Widow, dumbfounded by a simple medical term.
“You asked what was wrong with me,” he clarified, voice croaky for some reason. “I’ve got autism.”
Her face betrayed no discernable emotion for a good minute.
“All the greats had it. Einstein, Isaac Newton, Beethoven, Mozart, George Orwell, the list goes on,” he filled the silence.
Another excruciatingly long moment passed.
“You think I’m a freak.”
“No,” she replied instantly. “Well, yes, but I’ve always thought that.”
“Fair.”
“You’re going to tell the team.”
“No. Rodgers would, but no, I won't.”
Tony was surprised by that. He supposed Nat wasn’t exactly a stickler for the rules.
“You think I’m a liability.”
“You think you can read minds,” Nat retorted. “You can’t.”
He fiddled with the cuffs of his sleeves.
“I should’ve seen it coming,” said the spy eventually. “There were signs.”
“Don’t beat yourself up about it, I’m a master at deceiving people,” Tony joked but she shot him a confused look which told him he’d not said it right. “Joking,” he clarified. “What’re you gonna do about it?”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
Tony didn’t quite know.
“Not be a dick like the others, I guess,” was what he decided to say.
“Guess that’s fair. Shit, we treated you like crap. Does that make me-” she trailed off, horrified. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.”
“All good. You’ve all been your own flavour of ableist, I tend not to weep over it,” he assured her. Tony had, in fact, wept about it, but he didn’t tell her that. He didn’t need to. She’d figure it out based on his body language anyways.
It felt kind of nice to just… talk about it with someone. Maybe he’d tell the others - in due time, at least. Not now. He’d not even told Pepper yet. In fact, he’d been kind of ignoring her calls for the past month so she wouldn’t notice how much of a mess he was. He should look into that. That was… a problem. But it was off his chest. To someone, at least. He wondered if that was a mistake. He’d find out soon enough. For now, he just sat on the floor, Nat on his bed, wondering how to move forward.

Chapter Text

Natasha Romanov was a highly trained assassin.

She noticed things not even Jarvis could. If something was going on in the Avengers Tower, she would be the first to know.

Tony skipped a board meeting? She’d already told Pepper and helped her prepare a lecture. Bruce was feeling bad about murder again? Her phone was already open on his favourite classical music playlist. Steve was having flashbacks? She knew the moment he left his room at 1:06 am with a bead of sweat on his forehead and eyes slightly red from being flushed out with water.

But when Tony Stark began acting weird, she’d dismissed it. Chalked it up to Tony being Tony. Projected his media persona onto the man standing in front of her, time and time again. He was being selfish, he was being antisocial, he was being the Tony Stark they wrote about in magazines. Because the media was always right, and the Tony Stark the public saw was no different to the Tony Stark who lived in Avengers Tower and had freakouts about cucumber on his tacos: a reckless, narcissistic billionaire who only cared about himself.

But she was wrong. Very wrong. And now she felt so incredibly guilty.

After reading up on autism she had no idea how she’d not come to that conclusion the moment she met the complete mess of a man. The way he moved his hands, digging his nails into his palms. Anger? No, he was inflicting pain on himself to focus because if he didn’t, they’d yell at him. The way he avoided group activities like the plague. Antisocial? No, he was trying not to burn himself out and probably avoiding all the awful insults they threw at him. Being obsessed with building new technology for them. Showing off? No, he hyper-fixated on making new equipment even though the team never thanked him. It was his outlet.

And now she was sitting on his bed, watching him stare blankly off into the distance after she had forced his secret out of him with a crowbar.

After an hour or so, she realised Tony didn’t want to talk anymore. And rightfully so. So she got up abruptly and left, taking the elevator back down to the communal area where the rest of the team was watching a Lord of the Rings marathon. Gandalf was screaming at some fire monster but she didn’t care. Natasha silently poured herself a cup of coffee in the kitchen even though it was 10 o’clock at night and sat down on a beanbag, keeping her expression blank so as not to betray the information she had learned recently.

Clint, who was lying on the couch, knew immediately.

What’s wrong? he signed.

Are we seriously using sign language to have secret conversations now? Nat replied, avoiding the question.

Yes. Yes, we are. Now, what’s wrong?

Private business. Not of your concern.

“Hey. We speak English here,” Steve said. The two spies rolled their eyes.

Clint lifted his hands to begin signing again and Steve shot him a glare from his position at the other end of the couch. The archer raised his hands in surrender and waited until the captain wasn’t looking to toss a pillow at his head.

“Heyy!!” yelped Steve, throwing the pillow back harder.

Nat laughed at the boys’ childish behaviour, sharing an amused look with Bruce. Her happiness faded when she remembered Tony, sitting on the floor of his room, alone and missing out on… whatever this was. They’d done that. She’d done that. Their comments and insults had chipped away at him bit by bit until he found it easier to stay in his room than have fun with the team. They’d made him uncomfortable in his own tower. In his own living room. And then they’d gotten mad at him for not wanting to be around them.

The group that was tasked with protecting the Earth couldn’t even protect the mental health of one of its members.

Sure, they all had baggage. Steve hated the cold, Clint was constantly scared for his family’s safety, Natasha had flashbacks whenever she heard little girls crying, and Bruce… well, Bruce was Bruce.

But Tony’s was different.

He’d been kidnapped, waterboarded, blown up, attempted-murdered, attempted-murdered again, poisoned, stuck in a helicarrier engine, thrown out of a window by a god, attempted-murdered for the third time by an army of aliens, and then flown through a wormhole to save the world. All the while dealing with autism and trauma and who knows what else. And all the team had done to thank him was move into his house and drive him out of his own living room.

God, now she felt bad. Natasha pegged a pillow at Steve. That made her feel a little better.

………………………………….

In his room, Tony contemplated.

This feeling of release - of freedom - was it one he should seek? Having kept this secret for so long, he didn’t know what to do now that it was out to someone. Especially since the rest of the team still didn’t know. He would prefer to keep it that way but something told him people had started noticing.

Gosh, he’d dug himself so far down this rabbit hole of crap. Usually, he’d find a way around it. Find a shortcut. Figure something out where he didn’t have to be uncomfortable, honest, or talk about all this ‘feelings’ garbage. But there was no backing out here. He had no window to climb out of, no back alley to escape to. He had to face the music, even if the music was absolute shit and intent on destroying his will to live. 

Stupid fucking brain.

Stupid fucking brain telling him to go down and watch whatever movie the team had picked out.

Stupid fucking brain telling him he wasn’t okay. That he needed help. That he needed someone to talk to.

Stupid fucking brain making his every waking moment a battle between the person he was and the calm, collected mask he’d built because if he lost everything would come crumbling down. 

Right?

But he had lost. He’d lost to Nat and everything had been fine.

And now he was being rational. What had she done to him? If only he hadn’t built that stupid suit. If only he hadn’t invited the Avengers into his house. If only-

“Tony?”

Great. What now?

Tony turned to look at the doorway where Nat was standing, her expression blank as always. He went to stop his hands from flailing around in the air and gather whatever was left of his fractured mask before pausing. He didn’t have to do that. He’d already lost.

Was this… relief? What was this feeling? Having another person present but not having to shield himself - his true self - from view. It was a good feeling. It was a rush. He could feel the dopamine coursing through his veins. He liked this, even if he didn’t know what it was.

“What’re you smiling for, dork?” Nat chuckled.

Tony hadn’t realised he was smiling. He wasn’t closely regulating his facial expressions anymore, every movement of his features true to his emotions.

“Why don’t you hop off the floor and come downstairs? We’re missing a team member.”

Tony hummed in agreement, a shock to himself as much as it was to Nat. He took off his tear-soaked hoodie, keeping the earbuds on because he knew he’d need them. As he followed Nat into the elevator, he felt comfortable. Free.

“Gonna speak to me?” she asked.

She was met with a simple shake of his head. Not ready. Not yet. He felt like a child but he already knew if he tried he’d fail miserably anyway. There was no use in forcing words out of his throat. Not tonight. Tony played with the tassels of the fresh hoodie he’d chosen, eyes on the numbers that flicked by on the screen above the doors.

Then… ding!

At the noise, Tony snapped back behind his mask, hands by his sides, face less animated, eyes scanning the room before resting on his team members. They were huddled around the TV watching Lord of the Rings (because of course they were). Clint gave him an almost hostile look which Nat immediately shot down with a Black Widow glare.

Why’d you bring the killjoy? He signed to her.

Nat began to respond but Tony elbowed her.

Focus on the movie, Legolas , he signed back with a smirk.

The look on Clint’s face was priceless. The look on Nat’s was even better. Tony was just grateful he’d been given an excuse to use ASL. Meanwhile, Steve and Bruce shared similar confused looks.

“Since when did you know sign?” asked Clint, a little taken aback and a lot embarrassed.

I will relish this moment forever, was Tony’s reply.

“Okay, now you’re just rubbing it in.” Clint huffed and crossed his arms.

“Again, English please!” Steve said.

“Ohhhh noooo the mighty Captain America, I fear the wrath of your couch cushions,” Nat teased, pretending to tremble.

“You should!” countered Steve, shooting a cushion across the room.

Nat caught it and passed it to Tony who promptly flung it back at the super-soldier with a laugh. A pillow fight then broke out, ending with Steve being pillowed on the back of the head by Tony and surrendering soon after. Tony lifted a cushion above his head in victory.

“I am the king of pillows!” he announced.

“He speaks!” cheered Nat.

It was almost a dream. In fact, Tony pinched himself multiple times to make sure it wasn’t. Even this was something that not even his subconscious could imagine. But then again, what do dreams know of boundaries? But it was real. It was happening. No one was yelling at him or forcing him to do anything, yet here he was on his own accord, having fun.

Maybe they weren’t so bad after all.

Chapter Text

Nat had been spending more and more time with Tony this past week. Not that he was complaining. He didn’t mind the company and, surprisingly, she didn’t mind him. He didn’t care that she was going all spy mode, observing him, calculating, and deciding on her next move. She seemed to be enjoying it - that was all that matters. It was an almost alien experience. He'd never had someone actually appreciate him for who he was (excluding Bruce). People always wanted something. But not Nat. She was perfectly fine just being friends and hanging out. They were in the lab doing some tests on prototype nanotech, Tony rambling on about their strength capabilities while Nat watched with an unreadable expression. She nodded every once and a while to let him know she was listening but Tony knew she had no idea what half the words he was saying even meant.  He stopped every once and a while to check if she was still interested, not fully believing she actually wanted him to keep talking. And yet she did, each time giving a nod and perhaps asking a question to get the ball rolling again.

Bruce was nearby tinkering with some blueprints, looking over to the pair every few minutes with a smile. Tony didn’t notice, off in his own world at this point. His leg was tapping to the beat of some Bon Jovi song even though the music playing over the speakers was classical (Bruce’s choice, to Tony’s detriment). Bruce gave him the ‘look’ to notify him of his leg’s betrayal but Tony just shrugged and continued his rambling. He knew Bruce didn’t mind it and with Nat now on his side there was really no point.

“...and linked together the nanobots can withstand force upwards of-”

There was a quiet whooshing noise as the glass doors to the lab slid open. Aw, crap. It was Steve. Tony could recognise his footsteps by now and by the look on his face, he was mad. Tony's expression changed from childish excitement to blank and slightly confused instantly. Steve was not, however, scary, as he was dressed in blue striped pyjamas and a soft yellow nightgown. Tony hadn’t realised it was nighttime yet.

“Morning, Steve,” said Bruce. He must have been unaware of the man’s anger, Tony thought, as the scientist seemed perfectly calm.

“It is 9:27 pm, Dr Banner,” Jarvis informed him to which Bruce sighed and rubbed his temple with two fingers.

“That late?” he groaned. “Time for another coffee. Tony?”

Tony nodded. He still needed to do some more trials on the nanobots to see what they were capable of. He could sleep later. Perhaps one day, with the right equipment, he could crack the code to make a suit out of them. Bruce left for the kitchen.

“There a problem, Steve?” Tony asked. His fingers ran over the files he held in his hands and he crumpled the edges subconsciously. He looked the supersoldier up and down. “Lose your binkie?”

Bruce snorted, halfway out the door, and continued on his quest for coffee. Nat stayed silent, her no-nonsense authority radiating over the room and keeping Steve in check even if she wasn’t actively participating in the conversation.

“I- no. What?” the man stammered. “You asked me to come by to test out a new magnetic system for my shield… Is now not a good time?”

Tony tilted his head, confused. Steve was angry . He looked angry, at least. He didn’t sound angry. Regardless, the man was looking at him expectantly. He needed an answer.

Tony stayed unimaginably still, his expression unmoving. Any signs of weakness were like blood to a shark. Steve’s eyes bored into him. Don’t let him see. Don’t let him know . Tony didn’t understand - the super soldier’s eyebrows had been furrowed, his movements sharp and his face tight. What was going on? He was reaching the maximum acceptable number of seconds before answering but his mind was blank. What to say? What to do?

“Uh… yeah, sure. No, it’s a good time. I’ll just get it for you now…” Tony replied, voice slightly shaky. “It’s a magnetic locking system. Much more efficient than the weak one SHEILD gave you. This one will keep it in place and I’ve designed it to retract the shield from at least a foot away so you don't need to worry about making contact with the magnet, just getting your arm reasonably close.”

He retrieved the prototype from under his desk as he spoke. He’d already attached it to the shield so it was just a matter of whether it felt right. Steve took it from him and turned it over, feeling the weight no doubt. Tony hoped he’d done a good job.

“Feels great. I’ll test it with the uniform in the morning,” Steve said. He tossed the shield up and down before passing it back to Tony who jumped away and lifted his hands in the air. “Right. Weird handing things thing. Gotcha.” He placed it on the bench. “You’re a strange person, Tony.”

Tony lifted his chin.

“Thank you for the compliments, old man,” Tony replied.

“Thanks for the shield, power ranger,” he shot back.

“Alright, Rodgers. Out of my lab,” Tony chuckled and shooed him out.

As soon as Steve had turned the corner and couldn’t see through the glass windows, Nat drew in a breath but Tony cut her off before she could speak.

“Don’t, okay?” he warned her.

She raised her hands in surrender, backing away with a smirk.

“Youuuu thought he was ma-ad,” she said in a singsong voice. “I think he noticed.”

“C’mon, was it really that obvious?” Tony groaned and lowered his face into his hands, his back leaning against a desk. “He already thinks I’m crazy. He won’t think too much of it…” he said into his open palms.

Nat lifted herself onto the desk and rested a hand on his back. He didn’t know why he was okay with her teasing him about his quirks. Maybe because he knew she was just joking, whereas with the others he couldn’t tell.

“There, there, princess,” she said teasingly, ruffling his hair.

“Hey!” Tony yelped and slapped her arm away. “I’ll have you know it takes ages to perfect the tired engineer look. You owe me 39 hours of sleep deprivation.”

“My god, Tony get some sleep.”

“No.”

The lab doors slid open and Tony looked up to see Bruce walk in, coffee in hand.

“My saviour!” Tony proclaimed, lifting himself away from the desk and walking over to his science bro. “Save me…” he whispered.

Bruce huffed and raised an eyebrow. He placed Tony’s coffee on a bench, returning to his research in silence.

“I’m staying outa this,” he mumbled and shuffled through some files.

≿————-　Two Weeks Earlier　————-≾

Bruce Banner was the kind of person who avoided conflict. For good reason. He also tended to avoid drama, but when the Avengers had gotten to talking about Tony he couldn’t help but listen.

“He’s acting strange. Fidgeting during debriefs, locking himself in his workshop, and barely talking to any of us. It’s been four days and he’s not really come up at all. And Jarvis won’t tell me anything. Something’s very wrong,” Steve said to Clint and Natasha who were also on the couch with him. The three Avengers were conversing, leaning forward and speaking in hushed voices. Not hushed enough for Bruce not to notice from his spot across the room working on his research. “I’m worried for him.” Steve’s words were genuine.

“He’ll be fine. He’s Tony Stark. Yeah, he does some weird stuff, but he’s a genius. Most geniuses do weird shit,” said Nat. “Have you literally read nothing about him?”

“The man was at MIT at 14. Of course, he lacks social skills. And besides, you met his father. He was a little like this, too. Antisocial,” Clint added.

“Yeah, I suppose so. Still, look out for him, right? Nat, you’re good at reading people. Just… watch him closely next mission.” Steve sighed. 

The three continued their conversation but Bruce tuned out. He didn’t immediately know how to think about all this. Tony was his friend - he should be outraged about the others speaking behind his back. He gritted his teeth. No conflict. No drama. He barely knew these people anyway - they’d only met a few weeks ago. He had no right to judge them based on the contents of a single conversation. Bruce turned his attention back to some equations he’d been working on for Tony to make his repulsors more powerful yet more compact. He scribbled some symbols onto the notebook in front of him, testing, failing, testing, failing, testing…

It worked.

Bruce let out a victorious “ha!” and ripped the page from its spine, holding it up. The others looked up at him with confused expressions before continuing their quiet conversation. He dashed down the stairs to Tony’s workshop.

“I cracked it, Tony! I cracked it!” he called, waving the paper in the air.

Tony looked up from his chair with a grin. Now that Bruce looked at him closely, he had bags around his eyes and his expression had an element of pain to it. His eyes were red and tired and his movements were shaky. Perhaps Bruce should be concerned.

He went to place the paper down on a desk so Tony could look at it, aware of his having-things-handed-to-him phobia. But he didn’t have the chance to because the paper was no longer in his hands. Tony had… taken them. He’d handed something to him. What in the universe was happening here?

“Science bros?” Tony offered weakly.

Bruce took a moment to think. Maybe the others were right? Tony was acting strange… but not bad strange. This was a good strange. This was progress with whatever issues had drawn him to fear people handing him things. So he had no reason to worry, right?

Wrong.

≿————-　A Day Later　————-≾

Only a day later, Tony had come to him. It wasn’t the request he had made that had Bruce on edge. No, it was the way Tony’s hands pressed together and kneaded each other as if to soothe their owner, the way he shifted from side to side, the way he jumped as Bruce put a hand on his shoulder. The way his eyes were still red and glazed over as if he wasn’t fully there. But most importantly, it was that he didn't seem to notice. Maybe Bruce was just seeing what he wanted to see, but maybe he wasn’t.

"Tacos?" Bruce asked. He didn’t know Tony was a fan of tacos - he seemed like more of the kind of person to like greasy American food.

Tony’s expression changed and he shrunk back a little, reminding Bruce of a scared child.

"Yeah, if that's alright?" he said with a slight tremor in his voice.

Bruce tilted his head. He didn’t know what he’d done that would warrant such a reaction, however subtle.

"Sure," he replied in a calm voice to try and reassure his friend.

"I'm sorry, what?" Tony’s tone was sharp and hostile. Almost as if he hadn’t been expecting Bruce’s response.

"Uh, sure? I can make tacos if that's what you'd like." Bruce gave a slightly confused look. "Are you feeling ok?"

Tony suddenly stood up straighter and his pained expression was replaced with a blank one. He smiled. "Yes, yes! I'm ok! Tip top shape, right Jarvis?" His voice was raised and Bruce took a step back. He got the sense that the engineer was lying.

"Actually, Sir..."

Tony’s eyes widened just a smidgen. "Don't need your input, Jarvis!" Tony lifted his hand and the AI went silent.

“Could you please stop yelling, Stark? Trying to watch a film here!" yelled Nat from the living room.

"Put the subtitles on!" Tony called back, seemingly snapped out of his strange panicky state.

"I would but Clint'll kill me."

"Damn right I will," affirmed Clint.

Bruce just sighed and rested his head in his palm. What had he gotten himself into, coming here? He was already going full therapist mode on one of his team members - what was next?

≿————-　Friday - Three Days Later　————-≾

Bruce was using the kitchen coffee machine. Now, he wouldn’t usually go so far out of his way as to walk all the way to the elevator, wait in the elevator, and walk all the way to the kitchen, just for a cup of coffee. But the one in the lab was broken and Tony didn’t seem to be fixing it anytime soon. He supposed his friend hadn’t noticed since he religiously used the one in his workshop for some reason. Surprisingly, that was one of the more normal things about the man.

“Bruce, man, you’ve been staring at the coffee machine for nearly three minutes straight, are you using it or not?” Nat’s voice snapped him out of thought and he wiped a hand over his face with a groan.

“Yeah, just… thinking,” he replied.

“Think faster,” grumbled Clint who was also standing in what looked to be a line behind Nat. “I’m tired and I need my fast juice.”

Bruce hastily made his coffee and walked to the living room which was overlooked by the kitchen, nestling himself on a beanbag. Some cartoons were playing, courtesy of Tony who had passed through about half an hour ago, but he ignored them. It was Friday morning - the day he cooked dinner - and he had to order the groceries. Tony had some fancy app downloaded onto everyone's phones where they could basically order pretty much anything from lab supplies to toiletries, so he opened that and ran his mind through the ingredients for tacos. Shells, of course. Mince, some spices, cheese, lettuce, cucumber, carrot, etc. Once he had finished, he took a swig of his coffee and got up to check the fridge and make sure he wasn’t ordering any double-ups.

The rest of the team, minus Tony (as usual), were huddled around the living area with a variety of blankets and pillows. Bruce had gotten used to zoning their morning coffee conversations out - they were boring and, quite frankly, irrelevant. Yesterday had hosted a heated discussion about how to properly make a PB&J and the day before Nat and Steve had argued about Lord of the Rings. Steve, of course, hadn’t watched it and Nat found that to be an insult of the highest degree. They’d have to watch it sometime, she’d said. Today they were talking about Jarvis for some reason.

“Wait, so he’s in every room? Even…” Steve sounded horrified.

“No! Why would he need to see you in the bathrooms?” Nat laughed. “There are no cameras in the bathrooms as far as I’m aware.”

“But he can see us right now?” asked Clint.

“Indeed I can, Mr Barton,” came Jarvis’ reply. “And no, there are no cameras in the bathrooms.”

“If there was, I wouldn’t have moved in. I wouldn’t want Tony spying on us in there,” Nat said.

“Wait, what?” asked Clint. “I never thought about that. He’s got access to all the footage… everywhere.”

“That’s creepy,” Steve said.

“I wonder if he’s watching us right now?” Nat thought out loud.

“He probably is,” Clint said. “Hey, Tony! Quit being a creep!” he called jokingly at the nearest camera.

Jarvis let out what could only be described as a chuckle. Bruce turned away from the fridge after taking stock and leaned against the kitchen counter. After a while, he decided to head back to the lab to do some more work with Tony. He walked over to the coffee machine to grab one for the billionaire on his way out but was interrupted by Nat.

“Making a coffee for the hobbit?” she asked as he stood at the machine.

Bruce smiled. “Yeah, he doesn’t seem to come up here much and the lab one’s broken.”

“Why?”

“Oh, well I think I might’ve busted one of the buttons and-”

“No, not the coffee machine. Why’s he being so antisocial? You’re the only one who really talks with him. We’re worried. You got anything?” Bruce could tell by Nat’s tone she was genuinely concerned.

“Oh, um… well not really. I’m worried too. But the moment I bring anything up he sort of… shuts it down?” Bruce thought for a moment. “Come to think of it, that might be the problem. Tony hates seriousness. Scares him away. Maybe… just keep it light. Joke about it, I guess, if you want to bring it up? He likes jokes.”

“Noted. Have fun doing boring science stuff, boring science nerd.” Nat smirked and elbowed him before heading back to the living area with the rest of the team.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Bruce had made it his mission to cheer Tony up tonight. He’d tediously prepared the tacos, making sure they were all perfect. It had taken him hours. Perhaps this simple act of kindness would make the mechanic’s day a little better. Bruce knew when he himself was having a bad day food always cheered him up. The mince was homemade, the shells lightly toasted, and the tacos themselves were packed just enough that they wouldn’t overflow when you bit into them.

Tony arrived first and sat down in the same spot he always did (another thing Bruce had added to his Weird Things Tony Does list (yes, he had a list. No, it wasn’t creepy)). The man had a huge grin on his face as the rest of the Avengers gathered at the table. While everyone chatted, Tony just sat there, completely at peace. He was so strange.

Bruce made the final touches to the tacos, picked up the tray they were on, and walked it over to the team. It was met with ‘oos’ and ‘aas’ all around. Steve cleared the centre of the table so Bruce could put down the heavy tray and he nodded a thank you. But when he looked over at Tony, he couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed by his reaction. A mixture of shock and uncertainty showed on Tony’s face momentarily but it was quickly wiped away and replaced by a grateful smile Bruce could tell was fake. Had he done something wrong? He shook it off - Tony often gave weird expressions for seemingly no reason. He was sure he was happy on the inside.

Everyone grabbed a taco or two eagerly and Tony raised one like a toast. Everyone else followed suit.

“To Bruce’s magnificent cooking skills!” he cheered.

Bruce smiled bashfully and waved it away, urging everyone to just eat. Clint ate his in three quick bites and Nat slapped his hand with a chuckle as he reached for more. Steve ate daintily without making a mess, probably the only one there with manners. In his defence, he was from the 40’s. And Tony bit into his taco like it was the best thing in the world. Bruce’s heart was filled with joy - he loved seeing the team happy. Now the only one they were missing was Thor. He began to eat, patting himself on the back. They did taste good.

A clatter caused him to pause. Some forks (why were there forks? They were eating tacos. Had Steve set the table again?) had been disturbed as someone slammed their hand onto the table. He didn’t see who as a flurry of people stood up abruptly, everyone reaching towards… Tony? The billionaire was scrambling away from the table, Steve calling after him to no avail. Nat grabbed his arm but he shook it off, disappearing around the corner off to who knows where.

Everyone stood in stunned silence, Clint’s hands covered in sauce, frozen mid-bite having taken another taco while no one was looking, Nat staring at something on Steve’s chair, and Bruce looking onward, horrified. What was going on?

“Was he… choking?” Clint asked, concern coating his voice. “Should we… I should go check on him.”

He got up to go after Tony, wiping his hands on his white shorts which caused Steve to wince (the poor old soul), but Nat reached out a hand to bar him from doing so, her gaze not moving from the back of Steve’s chair.

“No… No, leave him be,” she said, her attention elsewhere and lacking the certainty she usually carried.

“He could be dying!” Clint protested but Nat’s glare silenced him.

“Jarvis will take care of him,” said Steve. “If he’s in danger, he’ll tell us.”

“Yeah…” Nat muttered. “Yeah… he will…”

“Something you’d like to tell us, Nat?” asked Steve who was still a little stunned.

“None of your concern,” she replied, still unsteady.

Bruce still felt concerned. Very concerned. Tony had specifically requested tacos, so why had he left as soon as he took a bite? Bruce couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

“If anyone sees him later… let him know we’re worried,” Bruce mumbled. “Now, uh, eat your dinner.”

“Yes, mum,” Clint said sarcastically and the tension melted away.

The room erupted into laughter and the night went on as usual, Nat and Clint planning to spar later before bed, Steve using a fork to eat a taco, and Bruce going along with everything as he always did. But Tony’s absence was still felt, a throbbing pain in the back of his mind. What was happening?

Chapter Text

Tony was in his workshop again, and Bruce was concerned. His friend hadn’t left since the previous night and, though he kept telling himself everything was probably fine, it most definitely was not. In fact, he could have sworn he’d seen an inkling of green make its way up his fingertips a few minutes ago. But he was handling it. And by handling he meant suppressing the hell out of it.
The others had assumed Tony wasn’t choking when he hadn’t come back to the table and, though equally confused as Bruce, were arguably less panicked about it. In fact, Nat was seething. She seemed to think Tony had stormed off - over what, she’d not worked out yet. But she was the only one - everyone else was still worried for him. They all had their own theories but, without the man in question to testify, it was a dead end.
Which was why Bruce was pacing the living area, frantically monologuing to Clint and Nat who had originally been there to watch TV but, upon seeing Bruce’s distress, had made themselves at home preparing for an extremely long rant.
“This is gonna be a long one,” Nat had rolled her eyes.
“Pool?” Clint had offered.
Bruce was only mildly offended. He was too distracted to care.
“...but maybe he just didn’t like the tacos? I mean, would that be too much of a stretch?” Bruce was met with bored expressions from both of them. “Yes, yes you’re right. He asked for them - why would he ask for them if he hated tacos? Wait, what if he was choking and he died and that's why we haven’t seen him?!” Bruce gave a horrified look and stopped mid-pace. The tips of his ears began to go green but he took a deep breath, pushing down the panic that threatened to seize him.
“Oh, my god. Bruce. You’ve done it,” Clint gasped with mock shock. “Because there’s definitely no way we would be notified of that, right Jarvis?”
“No, Agent Barton. Absolutely no way,” Jarvis said.
“Oh… right… no, that was stupid.” Bruce put his palm to his face and grumbled. An idea came to mind. It was worth a shot. “Jarvis, buddy? What are you allowed to tell us, anyway?”
“As per protocol 2A.1 and Mr Stark’s direct orders, I can currently tell you if there is a threat to Mr Stark’s safety, his location, and a limited list of his vitals for your reassurance,” said the AI with what sounded like a tinge of disappointment.
“And?” Bruce asked.
The AI promptly replied, “Mr Stark is not currently in immediate danger and is on the workshop level. His breathing rate is 34 breaths per minute, his blood sugar is 110 mg/dL, and his heart rate is 190 beats per minute.”
“His heart rate is WHAT?” Bruce burst out at the same time as Clint yelped “Thirty-four?!” and dropped his cue stick which clattered to the ground, spooking both men.
“He’s got a heart thing, boys,” said Nat, picking Clint’s stick up from the ground and poking him in the chest. “You’re overreacting.”
“Jarvis, are you sure he’s not in danger? ‘Cause that's when you usually take someone to the hospital,” asked Bruce, trying to stay level-headed.
“I assure you, Dr Banner, Mr Stark’s physical health is perfectly normal,” came the reply. The ‘physical’ came off a little exaggerated but maybe Bruce was just hearing things. Besides, he didn’t know if that was relevant or not anyways.
This was no use - Jarvis was never going to get them anywhere. With a sigh, he gave up. Nat and Clint returned to their game of pool (which Nat was winning by a landslide) and Bruce continued pacing for a while before sitting down to try and focus on his research but ended up drowning in worry and regret.
Which was when Tony walked in.
He looked no better than he had the night before - some might argue he looked worse. Bruce didn’t even know if he was trying to hide his shaky movements. If he was, he was failing. The man staggered out of the elevator, hair slick with sweat. If Bruce didn’t know any better he’d have been rushing to his friend’s side to hold him upright. But he stayed put, staring at him from the couch.
Nat said something but Bruce wasn’t listening. He was more focused on Tony’s strange behaviour. He was standing up straight, wobbly as he took one rigid step towards Bruce. He fiddled with his shirt before his eyes widened slightly and his hands snapped down to his side. What in the actual fuck was going on?
Bruce started to speak, trying to level his voice so he wouldn’t cause his friend to freak out even more, “Tony… Tony, are you alright? We’ve all been so worried about you! Here- here sit down…” Bruce directed Tony to the couch, one hand hovering over his back to help him move as he seemed not quite… there. Like there was no Tony behind those hollow eyes. He probably wasn’t even listening. “I’ve been freaking out! We thought you were choking for a while, but you wouldn’t come back and Jarvis won’t tell us anything… do you have a heart thing? No, no that’s not relevant. Did you not like the tacos? It's okay if you didn’t.”
“He’d better be here to apologise,” Nat said, her voice a little less cold and more uncertain after seeing what a mess Tony was.
The man snapped back to reality, sitting down slowly, and Bruce sat across from him ready to get up quickly in case his poor friend somehow deteriorated even more and collapsed to the ground in a pile of dust.
After a brief silence, Tony replied, “Yeeesssss?”.
Bruce winced at his raspy voice. It was raw as if he’d been- Oh, my god. He’s been screaming, Bruce thought, horrified. Why? About what? Something was definitely wrong.
“Oof,” Nat vocalised from across the room in reference to his voice. So Bruce wasn’t the only one.
Wait… which of his many questions had Tony been referring to?
“Okay, go on,” Bruce said and motioned for Tony to keep talking. He desperately wanted to ask another onslaught of questions but the man was probably still processing his rambling from before. “Apologise?” he asked, wondering if that was what he’d said yes to.
Tony looked a little less broken after that. A little less. Still broken.
“Yes! Right, that’s it! I-I’m really sorry about… everything…” Tony began, his voice making Bruce cringe. The scientist looked over to Clint and Nat who were equally as concerned. “I… I dislike c-cucumber,” he could tell Tony wasn’t telling the full truth, “A-a lot. So… it surprised me when I tasted it in my meal the other night. I- I… well. I acted poorly and… I… I… well, it… it’s 100% my… fault and I’ll try… I’ll try not to do that… next time. I-I swear…”
Holy shit he sounded like a wreck, stuttering and stammering, hands shaking and clenched as if his life depended on it.
“Blame it on the cucumber. Nice move,” remarked Nat who was obviously trying to lighten the mood and perhaps get him to explain more.
“Thanks?” Tony responded, looking a bit hopeful.
“Sarcasm, moron,” she laughed.
Aaaaaaand she’d broken him even more. Great going, everyone. The man couldn’t take a joke, it seemed.
“Don’t worry, Tony. It’s not your fault,” it’s my fault for not realising you weren’t ok sooner, “I probably should have asked if anyone had… sensitivities,” if that’s what you call them, “It’s water under the bridge,” I’m going to beat myself up about this moment for the rest of my life but yes, I’m okay, thanks for asking, totally fine, me.
Tony tilted his head. “What? Why do people say that anyway?” he asked with the most innocent look in the history of looks. Bruce didn’t know if he was joking or not. “Water under a bridge is just water with a shadow over it!” Yeah, he was definitely not joking. The man was dead serious. “You can’t see it but it's still there. That’s not a good analogy!” a switch seemed to flick and he stopped himself. Bruce couldn’t help but smile. For a guy portrayed as rude and shallow in the media, Tony was, quite frankly, very sweet and… human. No matter how strange he was. “I mean, thank you.”
“You’re weird, Tony,” Bruce chuckled. But not bad weird. Good weird. Your own kind of cool weird. The kind of weird that makes me worry, though. You should work on that. Uncool, man.
“I get that a lot,” replied the billionaire.
The pair got back into their normal rhythm, Tony pointing out papers and Bruce explaining the research, joking back and forth, and for a while, everything seemed normal. For a while, Tony didn’t have the social skills of a newborn baboon, wasn’t shaking like the earth was rocking beneath his feet, and stood up for a moment without being toppled over by a light breeze. Nat and Clint finished their game of pool (which Nat won, obviously), Tony grabbed a snack and attempted to head downstairs but was met with much resistance and a sandwich from Bruce (much to Jarvis’ gratitude… and Tony’s annoyance), and everything was going swimmingly.
Of course, as paranoid as he was, Bruce asked Jarvis for Tony’s vitals about two minutes after the man had left. His blood sugar had risen a little thanks to the sandwich, his heart rate was significantly lower and so was his breathing rate (heart attack over, thank god), and he was safe in his room. Hopefully sleeping. The poor guy had looked extremely sleep deprived.
And now, there was silence.
Clint sat in the corner of the large living space sharpening an arrow (Tony had machines for that but he’d insisted he did it himself for the quote-unquote, ‘vibe’) and trying to look solemn and badass but just coming off constipated. Nat and Bruce were exchanging looks from across the room, neither one of them wanting to bring up the obvious.
Bruce kneaded his hands. It was an uncomfortable subject, but an important one nonetheless. He sighed.
“We need to do something about it,” he eventually said with a grimace. “He can’t keep living like this.”
“Well I tried to bring it up,” replied Nat, walking over to the couch and sitting down with an exaggerated groan. “But he obviously doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“Bring it up? How?” Bruce snapped. “All you did was call out snarky comments every few minutes.” Natasha gave him a look. “Sorry… but my point still stands.”
“You told me to joke about it!”
“Yeah, joke about it. That wasn’t joking. Might’ve been funny to you but it obviously wasn’t funny to him,” he explained sharply. “He doesn’t get jokes unless they’re, like, really obvious.” Yet another thing that was added to his list.
Before Nat could reply, the elevator opened and out stepped Steve looking… considerably shaken.
“We need to talk,” he said, everything about him commanding with a trace of worry if you looked hard enough.
Clint rolled his eyes and pegged the arrow at Steve from across the room. “Boooooo,” he jeered.
“Now.” Steve’s voice was final.
Bruce already knew what this was going to be about. He was glad Steve had joined them, though. Bruce had the leadership qualities of an overcooked chicken.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Clint Barton was a one-man show.
All this ‘team’ nonsense was getting on his nerves. Sure, Natasha was there and sure, that made it a little more bearable, but sometimes he just wanted to hide in the vents and drop smoke bombs on everyone’s heads cause it’d be really funny and they’re all kind of annoying.
But he didn’t.
Not because these were his friends or any sappy shit like that. No, it was because he doesn’t want them to see it coming. ‘Cause one day he planned to prank them all, big time, and just see the looks on all their oblivious faces. He audibly sniggered at the thought of it.
So here he brooded, in a dark corner, sharpening his arrow. He was vibing.
Except now Steve had to come in and disrupt his totally cool “hiding in the shadows” thing. Vibes ruined. Hmph. He tossed his arrow at the supersoldier and pouted. Throwing things made him feel better. Plus, now Steve looked considerably annoyed and therefore knew how Clint was feeling so it was even.
“Boooooo,” he grumbled and crossed his arms.
“Now.”
“Yep. Okay. Coming. Yessir,” Clint forfeited at Steve’s commanding tone, joining everyone in the couch area.
He, like Bruce, knew exactly what this was about. It’d been the talk of the tower recently, though he wasn’t sure why. Yes, he was worried for Tony - who wouldn’t be at this point? But he didn’t get why everyone was going crazy. The man was a nutjob. Sure, a breathing rate of 34 wasn’t healthy, but Clint could relate. Fear was known to do unspeakable things to the body and he wouldn’t be surprised if the wreak of a man had a freak out every once and a while. Hell, he was Tony Stark. Weird was his middle name.
But he wouldn’t voice any of this to the team. It was obvious to him the man had an anxiety issue but he wasn’t one to out anyone about it if they weren’t ready. He may have been a trickster but he wasn’t a monster.
So he sat in silence on a bean bag a few feet from the others (he liked to watch from a distance, it helped him think), trying to resist the temptation to poke the tense look off Cap’s face with a long stick.
Honestly, it was a miracle he hadn’t stabbed someone by now.
Anyways, he returned his focus to the conversation. Or rather, the lack thereof. Everyone was just being silent. For Christ’s sake-
“So,” began Bruce, slicing through the awkwardness, “the strangest thing just happened.”
“I bet my thing out-stranges yours,” Steve challenged, running a hand through his hair and breathing in sharply to portray his exhaustion or something (why, dude? Honestly, why did people do that?).
“Where’s your thing?” asked Nat.
“In his workshop, I presume.”
“Shocking,” she said. “So is ours.”
A long silence followed and Clint shifted his position, causing the bean bag to let out several shuffling noises. Steve took in another sharp breath and everyone turned back to him. He waited a moment before speaking.
“Well, ‘my thing’ was standing in the elevator looking not too dissimilar to a malnourished small child,” he began. “Didn’t even speak, just stood there shaking, barely standing. Spooked me for a moment. I tried to comfort him, tell him that we’re worried and we’re here if he needs to talk, but he sort of just… looked at me like a serial killer. So I just told him he owes it to us to keep us in the loop of… whatever this is… and waited for the next elevator. The guy has some issues, and he shouldn’t be going through them. We’ve got to do something about it, alright?” Steve took on his ‘rousing speech-giving voice but towards the end, he just looked… really, really worried.
And so did Clint, more or less.
That must’ve been right before he’d turned up looking like a shaken orphan on a doorstep. And right after they’d gotten his vitals, no doubt, since he’d been in the workshop at the time. Slowly pieces were fitting together. But what Clint couldn’t find was a cause. A motive, perhaps, in SHEILD agent speak. And yes, he was treating this like a mission, because what wasn’t in the magical land of the cesspit that was Avengers Tower? Gosh, he just wanted to go home to Laura. All this crap was way above his pay grade. But Nat was here and he’d promised her he’d stay. So he would. Regrettably.
“Our thing’s not much better,” Nat said.
“Our thing looked like he’d been spooked by a ghost,” added Bruce.
When were they going to let up on this ‘our thing’ thing? The metaphor (or whatever it was, Clint wasn’t an English major) was driving him up the walls. Yet, still, he listened.
“We asked Jarvis for his vitals… sounded like he was having a heart attack.” Nat looked over to Bruce and then back to Steve. “But apparently, he wasn’t in mortal danger so he could just have a heart thing from, you know, the massive hunk of metal in his chest. I don’t know anymore.”
The three continued their worried storytelling and Clint took careful mental notes. Nat scratched her butt here, Steve accidentally stubbed his toe on the table there, Bruce’s fingernails were more green than usual lah di dah di dah, all the regular stuff he took notice of. After a while, Nat tapped him on the shoulder and he fiddled with the device in his ear. Her voice came into focus after a second of high-pitched whirring.
“-turn your hearing aid off on us?” she asked, annoyed but not surprised.
“Gosh, it’s simple, really,” Clint said, ignoring her question. “Tony has issues. He will let us know about those issues when and only when he is ready. Not hard to understand.”
“No, it’s not simple!” Bruce burst out. “Tony is suffering. He’s miserable, I can tell. Forget looking like he’s seen a ghost, he is a ghost. I’ve no idea what’s happening, but don’t you think it’s our responsibility to help? We’re his friends. We’re his only friends. What if…” he took a breath and gathered himself before continuing. “If we don’t do anything and something happens, we’ll regret it.”
“I agree. We may not know how he feels, but Steve said it himself: he owes it to us to let us in. So why wouldn’t we owe it to him to help?” Nat said.
This felt like one of those moments in a dumb movie where everyone stood up and agreed and the battle sequence commenced with stupid intense music and people standing around looking solemn and brave and all. And while he eventually agreed, Clint did not subscribe to their dramatics. He stayed seated to prove a point but gave a nod all the same, mumbling, “S’pose so.” He was won over, more or less. He tossed a couch cushion at Steve. Now he felt better.
And of course, the Great Captain America agreed, too. Apparently, this was some epic quest now. The ‘Find Out What’s Making Tony Stark Act Weird’ mission. Spoiler alert: it was probably just Tony being Tony. But maybe he’d get to spy from the vents - that was the only reason he was doing this. The vents above Tony’s room were needing a bit of an upgrade, anyways. They had far too few tic-tac-toe games scrawled onto them in sharpie. Maybe he and Nat would fix that?
“But no spying.” Nat had read his mind. “We’re doing this the ‘normal human beings who are friends’ way.
“Yes, because we’re definitely normal human beings who are friends,” Clint huffed, disappointed. “Fine. I’ll do it, but only ‘cause the man flew a nuke through a wormhole and we owe him one. But I’m not going all sappy.”
“Fair enough,” agreed Steve. “We’ll do all the sappy stuff.”
Deep inside, Clint was just as worried about Tony as the others. He’d felt physically ill when he’d stumbled out of the elevator. He couldn’t stand seeing another person fall apart like that, especially someone he’d grown reasonably close to (well, as close as it ever got with Clint Barton. Minus Nat. Nat was an exception) over the past month. But he wouldn’t show it. He didn’t need to - he worked alone, the only person who needed that information was himself and… surprise surprise, he already had it. Clint picked up his tossed arrow from the floor and ambled back to his shadowy brooding spot, sharpening it while looking off into the distance.
Clint smiled to himself. Vibes. The vibes had returned.

Chapter Text

≿————-　Present Day　————-≾

Tony Stark was beginning to get a little confused. Or, rather, a lot confused. The team had been inviting him down to the living area way more than usual, they’d been leaving sandwiches around the place in spots he frequented, and had been acting strange around him, walking on eggshells like he was one wrong move away from turning into a pile of dust before their very eyes. And yet, as soon as he started thinking they were being nice, one of them would say a nasty comment and remind him why they were actually doing this: to take advantage of him. They wanted his money, his fame, his brain, everything but his company. No, his presence was just a side effect of having a roof above their heads.

But he’d come anyway. He’d come to their team movie nights, he’d come to their morning coffee chats, he’d eat their sandwiches (which were delicious, thanks for asking), and he’d ignore their weird behaviour. Because it was fun, for a while, to pretend they appreciated him. To pretend anyone appreciated Tony Stark for who he really was, not just for something he had. 

“Sir, you have arrived,” said Jarvis from a speaker in the elevator.

Tony had been invited down to the training area to spar this afternoon by Steve and Clint and, being naive as he was, had assumed they actually wanted them there. Only momentarily. His face had lit up, of course, showing his stupid grin and his stupid shining eyes. Revealing his stupid hope that maybe they liked him even know they obviously didn’t. But he’d shut it down the moment he remembered why they’d invited him. They probably just wanted to talk about something they needed him to build or invent or materialise out of thin air. Steve probably had complaints about his shield. Clint probably wanted to chuck a few insults at him and see him squirm. But he’d come, of course, because at least he could pretend they wanted him there.

The elevator doors opened to reveal the training area: a large gym, shooting range, agility equipment, archery course, sparring area, etc, etc. Tony hadn’t been down here much - the acoustics were an insult to his eardrums. And besides, his suit would likely break something. He would likely break something. He’d probably just ruin the fun with his presence.

But, here he was. Standing in the elevator even though he’d arrived a good minute ago. Luckily the others hadn’t noticed. And if they had, they didn’t mention it. But they wouldn’t do that, so they probably hadn’t noticed.

Steve was kicking shit in the open area and Nat was doing who knows what on the other side of the floor, Clint sitting in the rafters above so he could heckle the both of them. He’d specifically requested the floor have rafters for that exact reason. Tony’d had to put in some fake ones since the roof didn’t exactly require them. He couldn’t help but chuckle about it as he entered.

“What’s got you so cheery?” Steve called and Tony immediately wiped the grin off his face.

“Oh, just your laughable technique,” he shot back, well-practised at these casual excuses.

The man wore his full uniform, complete with the new magnetic locking system that Tony was quite proud of. He was passionately attacking the fighting dummy as though his life depended on it while valiantly ignoring Clint’s (quite frankly unhelpful) comments.

“No, no, I like it, Tony. Nice to see you smile every once and a while.” Steve said it so casually, so genuinely, that it almost sounded true. Almost.

“Sure,” Tony waved it off. “You wanted to spar?”

The super soldier nodded looking the slightest bit disappointed. Almost as if he’d expected more from Tony than just dismissal. But the look vanished as Steve picked up his shield and readied himself. Clint dropped a pebble on his head with a smirk.

“Careful of the birds,” Steve said, nodding up at Clint. “Troublesome little things.” A pebble bounced off the floor a foot away from Tony. “Terrible aim, too.”

“Caw caw motherfuckers,” Clint crowed from the ceiling.

Tony shrugged. “I can get spikes fitted to the rafters if needed. Might stop them nesting,” he played into the teasing, relieved to not be on the other end of it.

“Got a suit? Or are you going without it?” asked Steve.

“There will come a day when I don’t have the suit, Rodgers. Today will be the one time I prepare for that day,” Tony said, getting into the only fighting stance he knew and holding his fists in front of his face.

Steve just stared blankly. And then laughed.

“What the hell is that?” he chuckled. Clint threw another pebble at him and gave a meaningful look to which Steve gestured wildly before turning back to Tony. “I’m sorry, here, let me show you.”

Tony narrowed his eyes. He supposed he didn’t really know too much about self-defence outside his suit. Steve moved to stand next to him, getting into a ‘proper’ stance, he supposed, and Tony mirrored him.

“No, no, no, like this ,” Steve adjusted his arms.

Tony reeled back out of reach at the unexpected touch. It burned. It was almost painful. Scratch that, it was painful. The discomfort of Steve’s sweaty hands sent spiders crawling up his spine, around his neck, and down his throat from which a yelp came forth, strangled and fearful. He cradled his arm, all other reservations forgotten. Clint dropped yet another pebble onto Steve’s head, tut-tut-tutting in disapproval, but the only expression on Steve’s face was one of dismay. But Tony was bad at reading emotion - he was probably wrong. People were always annoyed or mad or confused when he did that. Never concerned. The super soldier backed away and reached his arm out not to touch Tony but as a comforting gesture. Well, this was new.

“Tony, hey, I’m sorry about that,” Steve said steadily.

Tony cleared his throat. “Erm, yeah. Sure. No, my bad,” he replied.

Well, this was awkward. He was awkward. He shouldn’t be here - he only served to mess things up. Steve was just trying to help. He glanced over to Nat for help but the floor was big - she was far enough away for everything they said to be garbled and indistinct. Tony was on his own.

“No, it’s not your fault. Won’t happen again,” Steve assured him.

What was this? There was a moment of silence that stretched for far too long while Tony gathered himself.

“Tony? Hey, we can sit down for a moment if you need…” Steve’s words fell upon deaf ears. All that Tony could hear was his tone. It was laced with pity. The revolting, sickening sound of pity.

Tony was pathetic. Steve thought him a charity case. So fragile, so weak and unable to function that he had to tiptoe around him giving him special treatment and guidance through everyday tasks. But he was an adult. He wasn’t some lost child. He didn’t need Steve’s sympathy, nor anyone else’s. Tony was a square trying to fit into a triangular hole, but he could figure it out himself. He could mould himself into the right shape. He could fit into their ideas of how a normal person behaved, if not for their meddling and feeble attempts at aiding him. He could do it on his own. He had to. They had no obligation to help nor any reason to. Hell, they didn’t even like him!

“I’m fine.” Tony spat the words out as his gaze fell to the ground. “You’re right, Rodgers. This is on you,” he growled and turned back to the entrance. “Jarvis, get the elevator.”

≿————-　❈　————-≾

“You what ?” Bruce breathed, shocked and dissapointed. “He what ?!” His voice was soft and not at all useful in conveying his silent rage.

Steve and Clint stood ashamedly in front of him, heads down as he let down his full wrath on them. He couldn’t believe it. They’d fucked it up.

“Well-” Clint started.

“You don’t get to make excuses, Clint,” Bruce snapped, still in disbelief. “You were there to make sure Steve didn’t mess everything up! And you,” he turned to Steve. “You messed everything up.”

Natasha was standing off to the side, eyeing the three men with a judgemental look. She, too, had been there, but Bruce tried not to blame her for the events that had unfolded. She’d been minding her own business. Still, he couldn’t help but wish she’d stepped in.

Honestly, the plan had been running smoothly for the past month since the night of the Lord of the Rings marathon when it had been devised. The Taco Incident had been the main motivator even though their inspirational Standing Up and Agreeing to Do Stuff afterwards had ended at… well, just that. Just words. Nat’s worry for Tony had been sparked by something the rest of the team still had yet to hear about, it seemed, and she’d called a meeting to actually do something about it. Bruce was still thankful to her for that.

And everything had been going JUST FINE until this fine afternoon. Bruce would have to add yet another problem to his (ever-growing) list tonight. At first, he’d thought Tony’s thing about touch was just a fear thing but according to Steve he’d seemed perfectly fine at the time.

Bruce sighed, waving a hand in dismissal. He banned Clint and Steve from the corner part of the couch for a week and gave them an extremely disapproving glare when they protested. More repercussions would follow, of course, but he needed to cool down. He needed space.

This plan had taken up all the space in his mind for weeks. He was always thinking about how to include Tony more, how to work around all this weird stuff, how to make him comfortable, and how to help. And now he had to pick up the broken pieces of Tony’s trust and try to put them back together again. Bruce was well aware he’d taken no time for himself in a long while but he wasn’t the priority right now. 

He grabbed a muesli bar from the kitchen cupboard and left, taking the elevator down to his room. A tired sigh was all he could muster as he stepped in and the elevator seemed to go slowly as if Jarvis sensed he needed a little time alone with his thoughts.

What was he doing wrong? Probably everything, all things considered. Bruce did everything wrong a lot.

But before he could spiral down too much, the elevator stopped and the doors opened. Bruce stepped out onto his floor, opening the museli bar as he walked towards his study. He didn’t need sleep - he needed work. He needed to lose himself in research and get his mind off everything so he could calm down and address the incredible pile of shit Steve and Clint had just dropped onto their plan.

Wearily, Bruce opened the door to the study but as he entered, he froze.

Well, shit.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Tony was standing at Bruce’s desk, leaning over a crumpled piece of paper. The door creaked open but he didn’t even look up. His gaze didn’t leave the words scrawled on the page in front of him. His back was facing the door and his hands held his hunched form upright, pressed against the desk on either side of the paper. He was shaking. Just a little, but enough.

“Tony-” Bruce started to speak. His voice was like a dagger. A disgusting, sweet, piteous dagger.

Tony lifted a hand and silenced him.

“You have a list?” he spat. The emotion behind his words was dense, a mixture of confusion and rage.

“I-”

“No. No, Bruce. You don’t get it. You have a list.” Tony’s gaze stayed on the paper.

“Tony, why are you down here?”

“I-” Tony faltered for a moment at the question. “I needed to… I had to… Didn’t want to be alone, ok? But - no. That’s not the point, Bruce. You don’t get to ask the questions.”

He gripped the table harder. He had a list. There was a list . They’d noticed, they’d known, it had all been fake . Their kindness, their… their everything had been fake. Spurred on by pity. They didn’t like him. They didn’t care. They were doing it all out of pity.

Tony turned and took the muesli bar out of Bruce’s grasp, taking a bite from it and chewing for a second.

“You do realise this is creepy. Really creepy. Have you been spying on me?” he said while swallowing.

“What… no! No, I have not !”

Tony wasn’t convinced.

“Who else knows?” he asked, taking another bite of his new snack. “Who else has seen it?”

“What- the list? It’s my list. I haven’t… I haven't shown anyone else, Tony.”

“Your list? Your list?”

“I’m… Tony, we want to help…” Bruce was still so sickeningly calm. So disgustingly sympathetic.

“I don’t need your help , I don’t need your pity . There’s… how did you even notice some of this? No. No, okay. Stop watching me, okay?”

“I’m sorry, Tony. I really… I really am.”

Tony dismissed the apology. It was fake, just like everything else. His attention returned to the list.

“Weird touch thing?” he quoted. “Wow, very original. You know, this one’s my favourite: ‘aversion to cucumber, confused face ’.” Tony scrawled something onto the paper. “‘Zero understanding of basic social cues’ well, that’s just rude. Let me make a few edits here.”

He added to the list, crossing off some things and writing a few notes, before aggressively pressing the piece of paper to Bruce’s chest as he strode out of the study.

“Figure that out, will you? And don’t call me when you do. I don’t care,” he said coldly.

The door slammed shut behind him and he called the elevator. He had to get far away from here. From these fake friends and this fake team. From everything. Tony packed his bags and left, ignoring the questioning looks from the team as he grabbed some of his things from the living area. He could do whatever he wanted - their judgmental gazes had no power over his choices.

He could leave Avengers Tower. He could get into his car. He could pull out and drive wherever he wanted because he was okay and he didn’t need pity or sympathy, he just needed himself.

But now, as he sped down the highway towards the only place he could truly be himself, he felt no more freedom than he had before, just an overarching pang of guilt and regret.

But he didn’t care. Because he was fine, and he was Tony fucking Stark.

Chapter Text

Loud rock music echoed eerily around the Malibu Mansion where Tony had gone to wallow in self-pity.

Because he sucked.

He didn’t even know how many times Pepper had knocked on the workshop door. It wasn’t like he was counting. (He was. 11 times so far). Her worried voice called from behind the glass panels (which were on tint mode), distressed and confused, which only served to make Tony even more frustrated with himself. Everything he did ended up backfiring on someone. He couldn’t even try and find time to himself without hurting someone he loved.

Because, again, he sucked.

But he didn’t care (he did). If everything he did eventually ended up hurting someone, why try? So he’d lost himself in his inventions, of course, because he always ran away when things got tough. His bots were the only things he could trust. They were predictable. They didn’t put cucumber in his tacos. They didn’t tease him, poking and prodding to watch him squirm. They didn’t pretend to be his science bro. They didn’t make lists behind his back and pretend it was normal. They didn’t see him as some hopeless child, needing to be rescued. They just… were.

Tony ran a hand through his hair, tugging at his comfy shirt and leaning back in his chair with a groan. He’d messed up so badly. But it didn’t matter, because as long as Pepper kept leaving food and water at the workshop door, Tony could live out the rest of his days in solitude.

Because, well, he deserved it.

And besides, here he could do whatever he wanted. There was no one trying to touch him, no one scolding him for waving his hands around, no one giving vague social cues and expecting him to understand. But now he felt guilty for taking the easy way out. Tony just couldn’t win.

In the end, this was all his fault. Tony had thought he could manage it - and he’d been doing just fine… for a while. He’d been handling things and then all of a sudden things had been handling him. Some things on their own had never really been a problem - sure, he wasn’t a big fan of loud noises, but his aversion hadn’t been bad enough to trigger a shutdown in forever. And he could stomach cucumber when he needed to (fancy food tended to include the disgusting vegetable). But everything had stacked on top of each other until the weight had become too much.

As neurotypicals would say (for some reason), the list had been the straw to break the camel’s back.

He’d never been this deep into a pool of overstimulation and social turmoil before. The closest he’d been to such an experience was after Afghanistan. Something about stuffy caves and sweaty old clothes… he tried not to think about that, though.

Tony let out a grumble, rubbing his reddened eyes as he spiralled. He tossed a potato chip into his mouth, the salt burning his throat sore from who knew what - yelling, screaming, crying maybe? He really couldn’t remember, everything was just a blurred mess, his memories obscured by a hazy mist. A numbness had set in, now, as he tossed the recent events over in his mind.

He had no long-term plan, of course. Some part of him knew he couldn’t stay here forever, but another part was strangling that part and telling him to keep up the good work, yes, all fine here, so… there was that.

Tony really should’ve seen this coming. But he hadn’t. Sure, most of the team had openly expressed their displeasure with him from day one. But Bruce… he’d made Tony think he could really trust him. To trust either not to care, notice, or mention any of the things he did. To accept him. He’d really thought Bruce cared.

But he’d been wrong. All the while, Bruce was compiling a fucking list for who knows what. Maybe he planned to release it to the press and publicly embarrass Tony. Maybe it was for blackmail. And Tony had played right into his plan, falling for the fake acceptance and the fake friendship because he was just so desperate to fit into the team.

He was an idiot and a coward.

As per fucking usual.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

“You are going to tell me what’s going on RIGHT THIS SECOND, Bruce, or I swear I’ll come down there and evict you all.”

Pepper was seething. That much was evident. Her face was red, eyes puffy with dark rings from lack of sleep and she looked as if she was about to explode from rage. She was fucking terrifying.

The 120” flatscreen TV she was being projected onto didn’t really do her justice. They’d need the biggest screen in history to convey all the emotions seeming to boil around inside of her.

Bruce winced. Not at her threats or anger, but at the reminder of how much he’d messed up. He hoped Tony was okay but knew that probably wasn’t the case.

“Is he-”

“He barged into the house without so much as a word and has locked himself up in his workshop for DAYS,” she snapped. “So I’ll ask you again: what’s going on?”

Clint lifted a hand to tell Bruce not to answer, stepping forward. Bruce already knew he was going to regret letting Clint speak but it wasn’t like he could stop him.

“You of all people know Tony’s not the most… regular person?” Clint began. “Well, Bruce made a list of all the weird shit he does and he found it.”

“YOU WHAT?!”

“He made a…”

“Well, in my defence…”

“Fuck you, Banner,” Pepper growled. “I’ve got to go to work but when I’m home I’ll try to pick up the pieces you left of him… make sure he’s not dead yet. No thanks to you.”

The video call ended abruptly and Bruce gave an exasperated sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose between two fingers to ward off the oncoming headache. He turned to the rest of the team who were scattered around the living area in various flavours of dismay. None of them even looked at him - they’d been giving him the silent treatment since he’d told them.

Bruce blamed himself, of course. For that manic smile, Tony had plastered across his face as he joked like the list was no big deal and definitely not a flaming hot dumpster fire of mistakes. For the distress in Pepper’s voice when she’d called them frantically after days of trying to figure out what had gone wrong. And for the nasty looks, everyone was still giving him. He sort of deserved it.

Fuck, why had he written that stupid list in the first place? How hadn’t he thought to hide it in case Tony came into his room for some reason? And why didn’t he explain when he’d had the chance?

And now Tony was bearing the consequences, Jarvis was sulking, and the team was barely speaking to him.

He was trying really hard not to go green right now.

The silence was getting to him.

“Well, I for one don’t think that went terribly…” he said.

Bruce was met with more silence and a raised eyebrow from Nat.

After a while, Steve let out an exasperated sigh and stormed out of the room, soon followed by the rest of the team until Bruce was the only one left. He dropped back onto the couch with a groan and rubbed his temple with his middle fingers. A crumpling sound came from his back pocket as he did so and he drew the squashed piece of paper out into the open, staring daggers at it. The list stared back with as much intensity as a slip of paper could muster. It taunted him. Notes were scribbled in Tony’s messy handwriting, correcting his grammatical errors, adding thoughts, and writing in the correct terms for Bruce’s strange descriptions. It looked like Tony had been thinking about this for a while; he’d done the research and everything.

That only made Bruce more dismayed - Tony had done research which meant there was actually something to research. Shit, maybe the billionaire actually had a condition. And in that case, writing a list was the most wrong thing to do in the history of wrong.

Ugh, great.

Bruce flipped his laptop open and began to google.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

“Tony?” Pepper called for the twelfth time. Why did she even bother? “Tony, look, let me in.”

Tony shook his head even though Pepper couldn’t see him with the glass walls on tint mode. No. No, you can’t come in .

“Tony, I’ve got your dinner.”

Huh. So it was nighttime.

“I need you to come out and get it. And when you do, we’re going to talk.”

She was bribing him. Blackmailing him. Why? Pepper may probably have been the only person who cared about him but usually, she’d have given up by now.

“Can you do that for me? I need to know you’re okay.”

Ah. He should have known. Pepper just wanted to fix the poor broken person. To be the saviour. To be the hero. She didn’t care about him in particular. It was just this twisted need for validation.

“We’re all worried for you.”

They weren’t. He knew it.

“Look, I’m running out of things to say, ok? You’ve probably got me on mute. I don’t even know if you can hear me right now.”

Tony was definitely pondering it.

“Bruce told me what happened.”

Of course, he had. Pepper probably sided with Banner already.

“It was a shitty thing to do.”

Sorry, what?

“But, look, you can’t stay locked up in the shop forever. I need you, Tony. And I think you need me. So-”

The glass door opened while Pepper was midway through her motivational speech and she was immediately enveloped in Tony’s (sweaty, diesel-smelling) arms. She let out a choking noise and he relaxed his tight grip.

“Not one for hugs… what changed?”

Tony shrugged.

He supposed maybe it was because her clothes weren’t itchy. Or perhaps he was just clingy after days of no human contact.

“You going to tell me what’s going on?”

Another shrug.

Pizza better? Pepper signed.

Tony snorted.

Sorry. This. This better? She tried again.

Suppose so, Tony replied, his heart warming just a little at her use of sign. She knew him too well.

What?

You’re bad at this.

A little dusty. Nothing awful, Pepper lied.

You can talk. I’m not deaf.

“I know you’re not deaf, Tony, but you’re definitely something,” she laughed.

He smiled and ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down. Pepper tussled it and he pulled back a little so she stopped. Fuck, she was the best.

“You look awful, love,” she said. “Should keep you away from 5-degree inclines and soft breezes.”

I don’t know if I should be offended or flattered , Tony signed with a raised eyebrow.

“Both. Now come sit down, I’m not sure if I could catch you if you fell.”

Tony couldn’t blame her - his shirt was stained with coffee and motor oil… was that ketchup? He was still a little shaky but hell when wasn’t he? The bags under his eyes were big enough to store the number of two-minute noodle boxes strewn around the messy workshop and if they got any bigger they might swallow up the entire earth. The list went on but before he could criticise any more of his appearance Pepper flopped down on the couch and motioned for him to sit next to her. Tony obliged, scooting a little closer after a moment.

“You’ve got to tell me things, Tony,” Pepper said with a hint of worry. “I can’t take this.”

Tony looked down at his feet which were swinging around as they hung off the edge of the couch. He was considering telling her, he was… But he didn’t know how she would react. And he could handle it on his own. He was fine.

But didn’t she deserve to know?

Well… yes. But what good would it do? It wouldn’t make any difference to her, it’d just make Tony’s life easier and he didn’t deserve that. He didn’t need that.

But before Tony could make a decision (for good or for worse), Bruce frantically stumbled into the workshop followed soon after by Nat who was trying desperately to stop him.

What the hell?

How did he get in here? Tony signed to Pepper.

“How’d you get in here?” she relayed.

Nat gave an exasperated expression. I tried to stop him, she signed.

“The front door was unlocked- that’s not the point!” he stammered.

“And what is?” Pepper asked in her ‘talking to extremely annoying press’ voice. Slightly patronising, emanating authority, the whole package.

“You,” Bruce announced, pointing directly at Tony. “I figured it out.” Tony’s breath caught in his throat and he had a mini heart attack. Fuck. “YOU’RE ON FUCKING DRUGS.”

Nat winced. “Bruce, I don’t think-”

“What?!” Pepper exclaimed, turning to Tony who was rapidly churning out panicked signs.

What? No! No! No! He just repeated “no” for a few seconds, baffled. How… how did you come to that conclusion, dimwit?

“Look! He’s too stoned to speak!” accused Bruce.

No, I’m not! Tony sighed and looked at Pepper who was waiting for a reason to believe either of them. Trust me, Pep, I’m not on drugs. I don’t think. I don’t know what the doctor’s giving me these days.

“Give me one good reason,” she replied sternly, a little shocked and a lot outraged.

He glared at her.

So you don’t trust me? Wow, what a relationship we’ve built.

She glared back with an intensity only she knew how to master.

Fine. I’m not on drugs. I’ve got autism.

Pepper’s facial expression didn’t change, she just gave a “huh” and turned to Bruce. What… but… why wasn’t she surprised? Annoyed? Confused? Well, he wasn’t complaining… or was he? Tony shrunk back into the couch cushions looking baffled.

“Now, give me your reason,” she said expectantly.

“Well-” Bruce stuttered. “I… I found this website- why’re you using sign language? No… anyway… I looked some stuff up and-”

“You diagnosed Tony on Web MD?!” Pepper seethed.

“Yeah! Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Go upstairs, Banner. I’ll deal with you later.”

Bruce complied and promptly left, staring Tony down the whole way. Nat went to step towards Tony and then hesitated, giving him a thumbs up and an awkward smile while she scrambled after Bruce. When the sound of footsteps stopped, Pepper closed the door to the workshop and dropped onto the couch with a groan.

“How do you live with that guy?” she asked.

After a moment of looking stunned and confused, Tony managed to sign, I don’t.

“Honestly,” Pepper sighed.

Fake friendship . Fake acceptance. It was all fake. I’ll get over it.

“He accused you of being high, Tony. You don’t seem very mad.”

‘Course he did. He’s Bruce. Dumb as shit but somehow managed to get seven PhDs.

There was a moment of quiet; not a bad one, though. A comfortable one. Tony’s anger at Bruce subsided for a moment and he let himself relax a bit, the little blossom of anxiety in the pit of his stomach retreating for the time being. Pepper got up to dim the lights (the burning, searing lights he hadn’t realised were so bright until they weren’t) but stayed silent, sitting back down next to him when she was done. Somehow the social fuckery and self-loathing thoughts faded into the background, and it was just Pepper and him, in a room, sitting in silence.

“So are we going to talk about what I just told you?” Tony asked.

Pepper looked up with a warm smile. “Wondered when you’d finally speak. You should take a lozenge - your voice sounds hoarse,” she suggested.

Her reaction surprised him.

“...”

“...”

“You don’t have any questions?”

“Why would I? I’ve known for, what seven years?”

“You’ve WHAT?”

His voice did sound hoarse.

“I know literally everything about you, Tony. It was my job for a while,” explained Pepper.

Tony looked at the floor. Of course, she’d know. Pepper knew everything. Pepper knew him more than he knew himself most of the time.

“You couldn’t have told me?” He was baffled.

“There wasn’t any need to. I knew you’d let me know eventually.”

Tony sighed, frustrated mainly at himself.

“Do you know how many times knowing you knew would’ve been helpful?” Tony brought a palm to his face. “Hell, I bought an entire restaurant once to keep you from finding out! It cost millions of dollars, Pepper!” he laughed. “You suck.” Tony poked her with an annoyed (but not really) look.

“Do I?” Pepper raised an eyebrow. He shrugged. “Anything I can do? To help out?” she asked sincerely.

Anything she could do? Help? It was a question he’d never heard before and he was speechless for a second. People always just assumed he was fine, that he didn’t need help. And he didn’t. No, Tony didn’t need help. He didn’t need to add any weight to Pepper’s shoulders - he could carry it on his own. He shut down every thought of asking for help and put on a smile.

“I’m not a charity case. Go talk to Bruce,” he said dismissively. “He’s up there with Nat. Don’t know how long she’s gonna refrain from murdering him.”

“When are you going to tell them?” she asked.

“Nat knows. The others… soon,” Tony replied. She raised her eyebrow further. “I promise.”

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Bruce was no stranger to the scientific method: testing, testing, testing, only coming to conclusions when you have all the data.

But he’d been desperate.

He’d known Web MD was not the most trustworthy of sources, but it had answers. And he’d been willing to disregard its questionable credibility in pursuit of something, anything, to explain Tony’s recent behaviour.

So when the website came up with a (mildly plausible) reason, Bruce had been excited.

Well, not excited that Tony was addicted to drugs. No. That was a serious issue. But he was excited that he finally had an answer; Bruce hated the unknown. That was why he’d entered the field of science, to begin with: to find answers. To expand his knowledge and fill in the blanks. Of course, that hadn’t ended very well for him, but that wasn’t the point.

So at this discovery, he’d slammed his computer shut with a little too much vigour, sprinted out of the lab, and torn down the hallway to the elevator nearly tripping on one too many occasions.

So now he was waiting in the tiny metal box, vibrating with joy that he’d figured it out. Nat was standing next to him trying to keep a straight-serious-im-super-important face and glancing awkwardly in Bruce’s direction every few seconds with a concerned look.

Bruce couldn’t contain his findings.

“ Tony’s on drugs! ” he whispered happily into Nat’s ear.

Nat tilted her head, confused and still processing his words. The elevator doors opened and they were greeted by the living area. Clint was sharpening his arrow again and Steve was sitting on the couch eating a sandwich with a knife and fork.

“Tony’s on drugs!” he exclaimed to Clint and Steve as he passed.

Clint shrugged. “News to me,” the archer remarked.

Steve shot Bruce a worried expression, “Wha…?”

Nat immediately ran after him with a look of horror on her face, likely due to the fact that Bruce had just told her Tony Stark was on drugs.

“Bruce- BRUCE! You can’t- don’t do this! Are you- you better not be going where I think you are. You’ll regret it. Trust me,” she stammered, reaching for his arm to try and pull him back.

“Look, I don’t care if you come or not, but I know what I’m doing,” he responded.

“No. No, you do not , Bruce,” protested Nat.

Bruce waved her off and unlocked the Quinjet. Thankfully he knew the address to Tony’s mansion since it was the only thing Jarvis was telling the team currently (the AI was sulking… as much as an AI can, at least).

The Quinjet doors opened and he stepped in, Nat following still trying to talk him out of this.

“Bruce, this is just going to make things worse,” she warned.

He rolled his eyes. “Sure, it is,” he said.

Bruce programmed the autopilot, putting his seat belt on and crossing his arms shooting a glare at Nat. She still insisted on coming (for some reason), and he couldn’t stop her. She was the Black Widow - she went where she wanted. He was aware it was sort of weird to be travelling across the country to tell his best friend he was on drugs, but Tony could easily end a video call whereas it was a lot harder to dismiss someone standing right in front of you. And… he sort of just wanted to see Tony again. Make sure he was okay.

So, a flight to Malibu was taken. A drive to the mansion, soon after. And then a series of confusing things like why the hell was Tony using sign language and why the hell wasn’t Pepper listening to him and yes, Natasha, Bruce was not the one on drugs and no, Tony’s living room couch was not comfortable and, dammit, Pepper looked furious.

“What are you THINKING coming here?! Where’s New York - like, a SIX HOUR flight away?!” she snapped, waving her hands in the air to articulate her rage.

“Four on the Quinjet…” Bruce mumbled.

Pepper shot him a look, organising some files on the other side of the room. It seemed she’d left work early to check on Tony as the bench nearby had become her temporary workspace. She must have been really worried for him.

Another searing reminder of Bruce’s mistakes.

“And Natal- Natasha. Why’re you here?” Pepper asked exasperatedly.

“Tried to stop him,” she said coolly.

“Tried? You’re an assassin, you could have stopped him in your sleep if you wanted to.”

“What are you suggesting, Miss Potts?” Nat asked, her voice dangerous but her words innocent.

Pepper shrugged. “Tony says you know. So why did you let Dr Google here do what he just did?”

A little emotion seeped through Nat’s calm, collected facial expression.

“Wanted to make sure he was okay. Bruce offered to throw himself in the firing line so I just rolled with it,” she admitted.

Bruce glared at her. “She knows what- he’s on drugs … firing line? No- I figured it out, though!” he stammered. “I think…?”

“Sure you did,” Pepper said sarcastically.

Bruce was more confused than he’d been at the beginning. That was not good. As he began to calm down from the hyperfocused state he’d been in, he groaned and slapped his forehead. What had he been thinking? No- he hadn’t been thinking. And what did Nat know? Gosh, he’d just dug himself deeper into the pit of regret and messed everything up.

He hoped Tony was okay. From what he’d seen, the man was a wreck. And using sign language, which was confusing. Tony wasn’t deaf. Pepper wasn’t deaf. So why the hell was he using sign language? But that was a question for another time.

“It’s late. I’m not going to send you two back to New York at this time of night, so you can stay here. But you’re out the moment I can see the sun, you hear me?” said Pepper.

Bruce nodded and Nat gave a slightly less murderous look (her way of saying thank you). The pair were shown to the guest rooms which were massive and far too expensive for the likes of them.

Bruce would inevitably spend the rest of the night regretting his life choices. And having a bubble bath. The room had a bubble bath.

Chapter Text

Tony was hungry. And Bruce was making pancakes.

Which would have been great had he been speaking to the man.

But he wasn’t.

The fake friendship would not deceive him anymore.

But, God, did he make good pancakes? Tony could smell them from his workshop, wafting down and filling his senses with the most glorious-

No.

Bruce made stupid pancakes.

Fake.

He was fake.

It was all fake.

Bruce was just acting like some twisted psychiatrist, studying Tony’s behaviour like he was a test subject and not a human being. Befriending him so he could analyse his every movement. Tony didn’t even care if wanted to help - he didn’t need help.

Pepper had told him she’d let Bruce and Nat stay the night. He hadn’t been happy about that, but he’d not had the energy to kick them out. He’d made sure Jarvis would wake Bruce up at 5 am, opening the shutters to let the blinding sun in. That was fun. He’d felt a little better after that.

But it was 9 now and Bruce was still in the kitchen. And Tony needed coffee. And maybe some of those delicious pancakes but he wasn’t going to admit that. There wasn’t a coffee machine in the workshop, a fatal design flaw that he was paying for now. Pepper had been supplying his much-needed caffeine for the last four days but now that he wasn’t locked up in the shop and she was at Stark Industries, he was stuck.

On one hand, he really, really didn’t want to have to talk to Bruce. But on the other hand, he really needed coffee.

Tony grumbled and left the safety of the shop, walking painstakingly slowly up the stairs and regretting every second. It didn’t show, of course. His perfectly curated facial expression was one of confidence and certainty and as he entered the kitchen he shot Bruce a glare, establishing his superiority.

“Coffee?” Bruce asked.

“Yeah.”

“Good coffee, here.”

“S’pose so.”

“Want some pancakes?”

“No.”

“Alright.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

Tension and hostility were thick in the air and both men could feel it. Tony cleared his throat and moved towards the coffee machine which Bruce was standing in front of as he waited for the pancakes to cool.

“Need you to move,” he said, his tone clipped.

Bruce scooted out of the way. Tony proceeded to make his coffee in silence. After a while, Bruce spoke up.

“Where do you keep ‘em?” He motioned to the room.

“Keep what?”

“The drugs.”

He rolled his eyes. “Usually in the floorboards. Sometimes in the back of the pantry,” he said sarcastically.

Bruce’s idiocy and cluelessness were similar to that of a confused child. It made Tony wonder if he was just that: a clueless idiot. That would justify the whole list thing - another silly thing Bruce just hadn’t thought through. An attempt at trying to help. Maybe he was just confused. Maybe he didn’t understand Tony didn’t need help and had handled things extremely badly. And, you know, it would explain the fact that he still genuinely thought Tony was on drugs.

Tony pushed that thought to the back of his mind to ponder later. He still had to be mad at Bruce. Keep up the act. Bruce’s actions were still inexcusable.

“So you’re not?”

“Not what?”

“On drugs.”

Tony huffed. “The only drugs I take are caffeine and antidepressants,” he remarked.

Bruce looked a little shocked for a moment, turning away to hide his expression, which was good because the KeepCup Tony had chosen for his coffee was freshly washed and disgustingly warm. A shiver was sent down Tony’s spine and he retched, the cup sent clattering to the floor. Gross. Gross. Gross. He wiped his hands on his pants to try and get the texture off, waving them around in the air with a whine.

Unfortunately, Bruce’s shock had not been enough to distract him from the situation.

“What the hell?” Bruce yelped.

Haha. Panic time.

Inwardly, Tony was hoping the floor would open up beneath him and swallow him whole. At least then he wouldn’t have to explain this. Outwardly he just smirked. “Add that to your list, doc,” he sneered.

Coping mechanisms to the rescue: push everyone you love out of your life! Hurray.

“Tony-“

“Save it.”

It didn’t matter anyway, because Bruce didn’t even want to be in his life. He just pitied Tony, that was why they’d become “friends” in the first place. At least, that was what Tony told himself.

So he found himself stomping out of the kitchen and down the stairs to the workshop once again, not locking the door since he knew Bruce wouldn’t follow. His hands still burned from the feeling of the cup and he grabbed a fidget spinner from his collection on the far side of the room. This one had grooves in it, bumpy as he rolled it around in his hands. Tony didn’t really care for spinning the things, but rather the textures they offered. The cracks that formed where the plastic fitted together, the metallic holes in each of the three ends, and the bumpy texture that soothed his skin, ridding his hands of the horrible, wet, warmth of that blasted cup.

After a while, Tony placed the fidget spinner on his desk and spun in his swivel chair for a bit before catching up on some work for the Stark Industries R&D department. He prayed Bruce and Nat would leave soon. But he never got what he wanted, did he?

≿————-　Some Time Later　————-≾

Bruce and Nat hadn’t left, of course.

Tony could, theoretically, tell them to get lost. He could. But he couldn’t bring himself to walk back up the stairs and confront them.

He was lost in his mind, as he often was, and his mind was, quite frankly, very mean.

He thinks you’re helpless

I’m not helpless!

He thinks you’re childish

No, he doesn’t!

They all do

They all think you’re weak

They do

They do

You’re pathetic

They’re right

You annoy them in meetings, you cough up their food, you call them names, you hide in your room, they’re right to hate you

They only act like they like you because they pity you

You’re a charity case

You’re weak

You’re-

“Tony?” Pepper’s voice came from the stairwell.

Tony looked up from the floor which he’d melted into and tried to fix his hair, muttering, “sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“Hey! Hey, hey, hey, no, don’t be,” she whispered, walking over and sitting down next to him. “What’s wrong?”

“Apart from the uninvited guests?” Tony asked, trying to slip in a sarcastic joke. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“I think they’re trying to help. In their own little way.”

Tony scoffed, “Well, I don’t need it.”

“Tony-”

“I don’t NEED help. I just want everyone to FUCK OFF!”

Pepper took his hand in hers. “Look, Tony. It’s okay to be stressed, it’s okay to be angry, and it’s okay to push people away if they’re not doing any good in your life. You’re allowed to be upset about it. I just… wish you would realise not everyone is trying to hurt you. Some people just make mistakes. Some people are trying to help… they just don’t know how to.” She paused for a moment, looking around the room, before returning her gaze to Tony. “I talked to Bruce, and-”

Tony stood up, pulling his hand away from hers, and stormed to the other side of the room. His fists were clenched. How could she? He should have known - no one was ever truly on his side. “You talked to him?” He was seething. “I suppose you’re on his side, too? Think I need to be in a mental hospital? Think I’m crazy? That I should be studied?” Tony turned and looked back at her. “You think I’m weak ?” he spat.

Betrayal. That was all he could feel. Betrayal and numbness. Numbness to the world, to his mind, to everything.

“No, Tony. Please… please just listen to me,” Pepper said with a hint of desperation. “I think you’re different. And that’s fine to me, but others… they don’t understand. So they try to fill in the blanks and… sometimes they’re wrong. I think you should help them understand.”

“ Help them understand? They’re the ones who need help?!” Tony growled. Pepper gave him a sympathetic look and only then did he realise what he’d just said. “I mean- I don’t-”

“All you need to do is ask for it. Don’t let your pride get in the way of your health, Tony. I can’t watch you tear yourself apart again.”

But he didn’t… he didn’t need help… 

Right?

≿————-　A Little More Time Later　————-≾

Pepper had left shortly after.

She had looked disappointed in him, which was fine because Tony was always a little disappointed in himself, too.

It only took an hour for Bruce to come downstairs.

Typical.

Asshole.

Here to collect more data for his fricking experiment no doubt, sauntering down with his stupid face and his annoying voice and his… frightened expression.

Frightened?

Why was he-

“Tony. Tony, I am so incredibly sorry,” Bruce started, looking pretty mortified for some reason. “I’ve gone full scientist mode on you. I’m sorry. Truly. That’s not okay.” Ah, there was the reason. “Pepper talked to me. Yelled at me. Twice. And you don’t need to say anything, you know. You don’t need to tell me what’s wrong. I just don’t want you to think I’m not your friend. Because I am. I was. And I’m sorry. Um… again.”

There was a pang in his chest as Pepper’s words finally made sense but he repressed it. He wasn’t done being mad. Tony gave a sceptical look and leaned back on his chair, spinning slowly. As he finished the rotation and was facing Bruce again, he reached out a hand to his desk to stop the chair and stared directly at the wall behind the other man, who just kept looking like a sad puppy.

“Shouldn’t you be gone by now? J, what’s the time?” he asked, evading the topic entirely.

“It is eleven-thirty-one, Sir,” Jarvis responded.

“It’s eleven-thirty-one,” Tony repeated matter-of-factly.

“I- no, you’re right. We should… I should go. I just… want you to know I suck,” Bruce said, turning to leave.

“I already know that,” Tony said under his breath.

“Yeah.” Bruce smiled. “I hope you figure everything out, Tony.”

“I’ve nothing to figure out,” Tony said defensively.

“You- do you really think so?”

He scoffed. Yeah, of course, he did. Tony knew how to manage his weird brain! He’d figured it all out before the avengers had tumbled in and messed up his life.

But had he?

Sure, he’d had a grip on it. That much was true. But he’d come home every night after continuous board meetings and press conferences waving his hands around, humming and pacing to stim his overstimulation away.

Of course, most of said press conferences and meetings he’d outright ignored. He did it so much it had become part of his personality for good or for worse. But that still hadn’t been enough.

Tony’d had a basic grip on social cues, of course. He’d studied books and pictures, learning the ways of neurotypicals, perfecting the perfect smirk in front of the mirror, practising sarcastic quips, curating a voice that sounded so condescending and uncaring that no one would question him.

And yet, it still didn’t help.

He had been slipping even before New York.

Maybe now was just the tipping point.

A flitter of panic blossomed inside his chest, hands getting shaky as he fumbled to grip the sides of his chair so they would stop.

Tony was not ok.

And here someone was, ready to help him, trying to help him.

So why did his words catch in his throat, why did nothing come out? Why was his leg bouncing from anxiety when all he had to do was say something and he’d be saved? Why was this so hard?

“I don’t know,” was what Tony tried to say. “I think- I- what do I do?” But those words didn’t even reach his lips.

“Yes. I’m fine,” he said.

“You’re sure?” Bruce asked.

“No. No, I’m not. I’m not,” Tony attempted to force out. “Yes,” was what Bruce would hear.

“I just want you to be alright, Tony,” Bruce turned around and walked towards the stairwell. “I’ll see you around.”

No, no, no! No, why was this happening? He tried to ask for help but all that came out were muttered lies.

“I’m not okay! Turn around! Come back!” Tony begged. “Bye,” he said instead, a nonchalant expression plastered expertly onto his face.

I don’t need help. What am I doing? I’m fine. I don’t need to drag someone else into this shitshow, he thought.

Something deep inside of him told him otherwise.

It was stuck under a trapdoor, banging desperately on the wood. It was screaming, it was crying, it was urging him on. But nothing he did could pick the lock. Nothing he said would break open that door.

He was helpless and alone.

And for once, it felt wrong.

Once Bruce left, Tony stared at the place he had stood, face blank, mind blank, everything shrouded in fog. He stared for a long time.

‘Leaving now. You know where we’ll be :)’ came a text after half an hour or so.

Tony tried to type a response. He had a paragraph written out… and then he didn’t. Every time his thumb hovered over the send button his breath caught in his throat and dread seeped its way through the pit of his stomach.

He just couldn’t. He’d lived in control so long, surrendering felt like giving up everything he knew to be true. But he couldn’t fix this with his mind when his mind was the problem. He couldn’t tinker with something, couldn’t tighten a screw or change a program. No amount of money could make it go away, no amount of dismissal, no amount of nasty comments or sarcastic quips. He was broken in all the wrong places but nothing could bring him to utter the words or type the letters or cry or scream he was just…

Silent.

The security footage from the area outside where the Quinjet was parked played on a holographic screen in front of him but he had been paying no attention to it. Out of the corner of his eye Tony watched as the Quinjet's engines started. He watched as Bruce stepped in. He watched as Nat followed. He watched as they began the takeoff sequence.

And then he was running.

He was running up the stairs, he was crying for a moment and then he wasn’t and then he was again, he was sprinting to the door, calling out, begging, pleading, his arm outstretched as he staggered.

Help me. I need help. I’m not okay. I don’t know who I am anymore and I’m scared , he tried to say to Bruce who was in front of him now, gripping his shoulders with a worried look. Tony was on his knees, the grass threatening to pull him deeper, to choke him with its waving tendrils. Luckily for the grass, oxygen was struggling to reach Tony’s lungs already, his airway closing up as he tried to choke out the three words his body seemed to hate so much. I need help. Please. Please help. Tell me how to stop this. I can’t fix it, I can’t do anything, I’m drowning but there’s no surface to rise to and no sea floor to fall to, it’s just endless, I can’t… I can’t…

All he managed was a whisper.

“I don’t… I can’t.”

Chapter Text

Bruce was whinging, again. It had taken Tony ten minutes and a ton of breathing to force something similar to a sentence out of his throat, and now Bruce was making him regret it. The man was shooting question after question at him, barely giving him a chance to speak in between. Tony’s face was streaked with tears, grass stains on his hands, and his eyes were bloodshot (more than usual, at least). He was in no condition to be answering questions right now, but Pepper was at work, and wouldn’t be home for a few hours, so a rescue mission was nowhere in sight. And Nat was just sitting to the side, not really doing much to stop this.

Yeah, he’d asked for help, but he’d had no idea how uncomfortable handing over control to another person would feel. It felt strange to ask for advice instead of seeking out a solution himself. He had no hands on the wheel, no reigns, no control . It was unsettling. Tony was still trying to get used to such a sensation.

From his position next to him on the couch, Bruce rested a hand on Tony’s leg and gave him a reassuring smile. That didn’t help, given Tony’s aversion to touch and complete hatred of the disgustingly piteous gesture.

“Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn’t you tell me ? We could have helped!”

Tony sighed and took a shuddery breath, trying to make his voice level. “I can’t ask you to do that. I can’t ask you to take on such a burden, okay? It’s not fair. To any of you.”

“Burden? You’re not a burden! And so what if you’re a little inconvenient? It doesn’t matter as long as you’re comfortable!” Bruce said.

“Get on your hands and knees,” Tony deadpanned.

“What? Why?”

“I need you to be my footrest.”

“Wha…?”

“It’ll make me comfortable.”

Bruce made exasperated therapist noises. “You’re missing the point.”

“And so are you.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Tony Stark, actually. Common misconception,” Tony corrected him.

He knew he was doing this to avoid the uncomfortable conversation Bruce was trying to start, shooting out sarcastic remark after sarcastic remark. It was a deflection technique, one therapist had said. It was a toxic trait, had said another. One had tried to argue it was a trauma response and Tony had her fired immediately. But he knew they were right - all of them. That wasn’t going to stop him from doing it, though.

“You’re an ass,” Bruce said, rolling his eyes and leaning back on the couch with another annoyed sigh. “I say that affectionately,” he added.

Inwardly, Tony was grateful for the clarification. Outwardly he narrowed his eyes. “Right back at you.”

“Ouch.” Bruce touched a hand to his chest in mock outrage which Tony smirked at.

A moment passed as the two just stared into space, neither one really wanting to stir up the conversation again. Tony was thankful. Bruce looked constipated.

“You both suck at talking about your feelings,” Nat called from the corner where she was watching them. “Speak like civilised human beings or I’ll come and rip ‘em out of you.”

“Gross,” Bruce scoffed.

“Not cool,” Tony said. “I like my feelings where they are, thank you very much.”

Nat huffed. “Squashed down in a deep, dark pit?” she asked sarcastically. “Talk.”

“We can’t just continue with our serious conversation after THAT,” Bruce grumbled and crossed his arms. “You ruined the seriousness.”

“Thank goodness,” breathed Tony. “Look, I told you what was going on. That’s what you wanted, right?”

Concerned friend noises followed. “Yeah, but- you- Tony, you’re an absolute wreck. I’m not leaving you like this.”

“Oh, great. Back to the seriousness,” he huffed.

“You asked for help. We’re helping you.”

“And I’m beginning to regret that.”

Deep down, he wasn’t. Deep down, he was thanking a God he didn’t even believe existed that Bruce wasn’t settling for his deflection and sarcastic remarks. Somewhere, from the far-off place in his mind where he was watching himself, he was so, so relieved. Relieved of the burden he’d been carrying and relived of the fear and pain that came with it.

But it was still uncomfortable.

Super uncomfortable.

“Is there anything we can do?” Bruce asked, his voice even gentler than it already was (which Tony didn’t know was possible). “I’m your lab bro, Tony. You can talk to me.”

“That is so, so cheesy,” Tony laughed. He took some time to think the question over, persuaded more or less by his desperation for this conversation to be over. Maybe he should just rip it off like a bandaid. Quick, all at once. Gosh, this was a mistake. “Fine. I want to talk to the team.”

“Sure. Yeah, we can make that happen,” Bruce replied with a hint of surprise, not unlike Pepper’s when he’d asked her to call a press conference after Afghanistan. “Should we, uh, head to the Quinjet?”

They did just that.

Tony seated himself in the furthest corner, far enough away that he could tap his foot without anyone hearing it over the noise of the engine. His chosen seat was uncomfortable and cold, not unlike the atmosphere of the aircraft. The lights were dim, the interior design bleak and grey with light grey finishings and dark grey highlights. He didn’t know why he’d chosen this. Maybe he’d repaint it. Green, or blue. Blue seemed a little more professional, but he sort of liked green. Or perhaps the Quinjet just needed better lighting - grey usually looked good in brighter settings. But then again, better lighting often meant more lighting, meaning more light, meaning aaaah bright too bright immediate death. So maybe the lights stay the same.

He was also considering adding cupholders to these chairs. But where would they go? Most of the team was right-handed, but he knew Nat was left-handed and Thor mostly used cup holders as hammer holders. Besides, Clint had a bad habit of leaving gum (unchewed - just there for the sake of it) in areas such as those.

Come to think of it, the Quinjet needed a ton of remodelling.

Oh, the things you learn when stuck on an awkward four-hour flight and need something to focus on other than, well, the awkwardness.

One hour in, Bruce asked the first question of many.

“Have you seen Winnie the Pooh?” he asked without preamble.

Tony choked on his own spit. Nat laughed from the cockpit.

“Uh,” Tony cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

Bruce looked genuinely curious. Innocent, even.

“I’ve seen Winnie the Pooh,” he said like a six-year-old telling his mum he won the 100m at the athletics carnival and got a blue ribbon.

“Okay?”

“The kangaroo in Winnie the Pooh has autism,” he announced.

What the fuck?

“Yeah. Yeah, it does,” Tony replied, wondering if he should laugh or die inside.

Bruce nodded thoughtfully. “You’re sort of like the kangaroo from Winnie the Pooh,” he stated.

“Sure. Maybe,” the mechanic affirmed. He twiddled his fingers, unsure of what Bruce was hoping to achieve.

“I read it in an article,” Bruce beamed as if reading up about autism was an achievement.

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Have a gold star,” he huffed.

Bruce looked a little dejected and Tony felt a bit bad about that. The two stayed silent for another half hour, Tony running over renovations to the Quinjet in his mind and Bruce probably thinking up some new, slightly insensitive question to ask him.

Speaking of which…

“Is that why you don’t like…” Bruce trailed off mid annoying question, “y’know.”

“Why I don’t like what?”

“Everything.”

“Name ‘em.”

“Touch, cucumber, being handed things, insults, the dishwasher, lights, noise, parties next door, basically all social interactions ever…”

“You’re mean.”

“You’ve got issues.”

“Touche,” Tony admitted.

“The bickering only works if we’re both mad at each other.”

“I know.”

Bruce grumbled and Tony smirked. That shut him up for a moment.

The Quinjet buzzed and whirred, flying through the sky at a steady pace and shuddering every now and again which made Tony jump. Just slightly, though. The noise was soon drowned out by the music playing through his noise-cancelling headphones, an attempt to stifle the whirring sounds and stop Bruce’s attempts at conversation.

Twenty minutes later, a hand inched its way over to Tony’s shoulder. He looked up to see Nat, who had turned on the autopilot momentarily, wondering whether or not to tap his shoulder to get his attention.

Huh.

That had never happened before - people respecting his boundaries.

He sort of liked it.

Schooling his expression and trying not to smile, Tony gave a questioning glance to Nat.

“I, uh, wondered if you wanted me to keep Bruce in check. Or if you can handle it yourself…” she explained. “He’s weird, yeah, but he’s just curious. Just be thankful he’s finally talking to you instead of using google. ‘Cause if you don’t give him answers, he will consult the internet.”

He’d not thought about it like that, but it made sense. “I’ll consider it.”

Nat nodded and returned to her seat.

Much thinking followed.

≿————-　❈ Dramatic Interlude ❈　————-≾

There was an hour left until they’d land in New York and Tony could feel Bruce’s eyes on him.

“Honestly, what do you want?” Tony asked, turning to face him.

Bruce lifted his hands in surrender. “No, no, it’s none of my business,” he mumbled, waving it off. Tony lifted an eyebrow. “Ok. Fine. It’s just, you don’t seeeeeem…”

“Shut up or I throw hands,” Tony threatened with a death glare.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Sorry… I’m… this is new, okay?”

“It doesn’t have to be. I’m not any less of the person I was before I told you,” Tony explained. “I might be different, but that doesn’t mean you should be walking on your tiptoes ‘round me.” He sighed and massaged his forehead. “God, I sound like my therapist.” Bruce shifted around in his seat, probably feeling guilty, now. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. That’s my job. Now quit making me talk all preachy and tell the rest of the team we’re coming.”

Bruce obliged, pulling out his phone. “Oh, and Thor’s over, too. Something about ‘taking a break from restoring peace to the Nine Realms’ or whatever he does these days.”

Tony shrugged. He liked Thor; he was a big idiot with no regard for social cues or ‘Midgardian customs’ which was kind of nice every once and a while. He let a smile slip onto his face, not bothering to school his expression, and played some AC/DC over the speakers from his phone.

“Seriously, Tony?” Nat called from the cockpit. You could hear the eye roll in her voice.

Bruce scrambled over and whispered something hurriedly to Nat.

“I’m not made of glass, Banner. I can take criticism,” Tony scolded.

“Right, sorry.”

Bruce gave an apologetic look and sat back down, fiddling with his fingers. He’d get over it soon enough. Tony hoped that telling him hadn’t changed the dynamic between the two; he liked their lab bro info-dumping sessions and playful banter. Nah, it wouldn’t - Bruce was just awkward.

Tony chuckled. “Doesn’t mean I’m changing the music, though. Your music sucks, Natasha.”

“Ouch,” she shot back.

“He’s right,” Bruce affirmed.

And, as if a switch had been flipped, the three were back to shooting snarky comments back and forth in jest. Nat insulted Bruce’s crocs, Tony poked fun at Nat’s taste in music a little more (and looking back, probably a bit too much more, but nobody mentioned it which was sweet), and Bruce managed to crack a joke about the list and Tony found himself actually laughing about it which, you know, progress.

Elton Jhon played and Nat and Tony sang the lyrics like karaoke, belting out “goodbye yellow brick rooooooaaad” with the cheesiest grins ever. Bruce just sort of stood there and gave a half-hearted smile, having (gasp) not learned every single lyric to every single Elton Jhon song ever made.

The rest of the trip was spent teaching Bruce the lyrics to Yellow Brick Road.

It was very rewarding.

Chapter Text

The Quinjet landed on the landing pad of Avengers Tower without a hitch. It shook as it made contact with the ground, causing Tony to wobble and topple into the nearest wall. He leaned his hip against the pole he’d just stumbled into and brushed it off; he’d meant to do that, yes. Bruce and Nat’s faces held various shades of amusement.

Yep, nice work Tony, hmm, yes, good start.

Residual tiredness remained from the slightly overstimulating but mildly bearable chaos of the Elton John karaoke session, not too bad but close to the forefront of Tony’s mind. He didn’t need to curl up in a dark room yet, but his skin prickled with sensitivity and every sound was just that little bit louder, rougher around the edges and tearing its way ever so slightly into his ears.

A little prickle of anxiety bubbled up in the pit of his stomach as he gathered his stuff: his phone, noise-cancelling headphones, a change of clothes, and a bottle of water. The anticipation of actually having to tell the team had started to get to him (healthy communication, ick). Tony could feel himself getting shaky and stopped, resting against the wall for real this time.

He breathed, four counts in, four counts out. His feet were on the ground, covered by an old pair of sneakers. His hands were clasped around some protruding steel bar. He could see Nat with her back turned, shuffling around the cockpit. He could hear the hustle and bustle of New York below. He could smell his sweaty old band shirt, soft from wear. He could feel the cold interior wall of the Quinjet along his arms and side. Raspy gasps of air turned into slow, controlled breaths and his shaking hands stilled. Nat cast a glance his way and Tony gave a thumbs up.

He returned to packing his junk up but the anxious feeling returned, ever persistent.

Thoughts swirled around his mind like a cyclone of worry. What if the rest of the team weren’t as accepting as Bruce and Nat had been? What if Clint told Fury and got him kicked off the team? What if Steve, having grown up so long ago, began to think of him differently? Tony was a liability. A risk. A deadweight. He’d made so many mistakes throughout his life, some very recently, the blame falling solely onto his shoulders. And rightfully so. If he let the team down because of a behaviour he couldn’t mask or a reaction he couldn’t internalise, he would never forgive himself.

But today, they would realize how much of a failure he was. They were going to realize he didn’t belong here – a man who couldn’t control his mind, who only fought for himself, surrounded by normal, perfect people without a single selfish bone between them. He should just save himself the trouble and leave now, without the pain and vulnerability of telling anyone else he was autistic. Maybe he could move far away with Pepper and his suit, just them against the world with no one around to judge him. An easy life. A simple life. It wasn’t like anyone wanted him here anyway–

“Tony?”

Gah. Sound.

Tony whirled around and glared at the owner of the voice, who happened to be Nat. His hand absently fiddled with the frayed left pocket of his jeans as he tried to dampen the sickening feeling of overstimulation.

“You right?”

Yep. That’d do it.

“‘M fine, Romanoff. Rack off,” he snapped, turning away and trying to fit a pair of shorts into an already-full backpack to no avail. He let his rage transfer to the aggressive shoving required to get the item of clothing inside, probably damaging the zipper of the back in the process.

“I can grab another bag if you need; that one’s seen enough abuse.”

Maybe she was trying to joke around, lighten the mood, but Tony 100% did not pick up on that because he only let out a frustrated grunt and stared daggers at the shorts. Usually, overstimulation manifested in Tony through silence, just staring off into the distance fiddling around with a robot or something. Sometimes, like today, it manifested as pure anger.

He shook his head to clear the noise etch-a-sketch-style. “Don’t need your help, death machine. I’m doing just fine, now quit treating me like a child, I’m alright on my own.”

The irritation spurted out of him in the form of snarky commentary which he tried so hard to hold back, remorse and embarrassment warring with the need to expel the negative emotion. Karaoke had been fun, even Tony could admit that, but he was drained and regretting his choices and, without an outlet, Nat was about to bear the brunt of the consequences.

“Alright,” she said, her face emotionless.

Tony may have been lacking in the ability to read and distinguish facial expressions sometimes, but even he knew the spy rarely showed emotion unless she wanted to. Even so, the absence of a reaction to his words only made him itch more.

“Leave me alone,” he snarled. “You’ve already dragged me here. Got what you wanted, huh? Brought me here to embarrass me, didn’t you? I’ll bet your sorry arses you did. I’m not gonna play into your games, alright?”

Surely she’d snap at that. But she didn’t, just sighed (oh, the disappointment made his skin crawl) and promptly exited the Quinjet.

The noises of the New York street below were delivered straight to Tony courtesy of the fucking nightmare that was sound waves, prompting his anger to boil over even more. He swayed back and forth, chewing his nails for a few minutes to try and process his emotions. No progress had been made when he got out of the Quinjet, but his mask kicked in and the anger was swept under the (already bulging) rug for the meantime. Yelling at Nat had made him feel better, but sickening guilt tugged at him, ever-present.

He followed Nat into the common area, Bruce close behind. A bored expression was etched into Tony’s facial features. Nat stopped, probably to let Tony pass, but he just stood there looking awkward, not knowing what to do with his hands. The background noise from the streets below faded as Bruce closed the door behind them which allowed Tony short-lived relief before the MarioKart Coconut Mall theme reached him, forcing his fists into tight balls. He hadn’t forgotten the point of their expedition, but the overstimulation was making it difficult to focus.

Tony decided to survey the room; take his mind off, well, his mind.

Gee, the place was a mess. The trio had entered the raised area adjacent to the kitchen that overlooked the living area and had a clear view of the chaos that had unfolded during their absence. Mjolnir was hanging on an exposed rebar (exposed rebar?!) near the door, a red cloak was discarded close by, and the occasional arrow was embedded in a wall. Three pillows were tossed haphazardly on the floor, the subjects of a bloody crime scene during which feathers had been strewn throughout both levels. A great portion of the glasses in the bar was shattered with no apparent effort to clean them up. Clint was perched in an open vent (open vent?!), surveying the damage with a smirk that told Tony he was unapologetically responsible for at least 80% of the mess. Thor was playing Mario Kart with an open box of pop tarts because of course he was, and Steve seemed to be watching youtube (YouTube?! The man had a YouTube account?) on a beanbag.

“Alright, McCallisters, show’s over,” Tony announced with a click-clickity-clap hand motion to let out some of the residual bubbling irritation, sliding down the banister and taking one of Thor’s pop tarts in one smooth motion.

After a good deal of thinking (twenty seconds on the landing pad), he’d determined it was better to make them mad at him than try to seem likable and ultimately fail, so Tony slipped on his “I know I’m unlikeable, it’s my whole personality” face and voice. It was a move Tony used often, especially with the media and people with power. And it worked; Steve glanced up with an exasperated expression, Clint rolled his eyes and Thor, well…

The big oaf looked up at Tony and beamed. “Man of Iron!” he cheered in his ridiculous booming voice. Tony winced at the volume which clawed its way at his eardrums like an infestation of maggots except they had knives and war paint and were screaming “FUCK YOUUUUUUU” in their tiny high-pitched voices as they stabbed his inner ear.

“Ah, I must tell you of this one time my brother lost a bet,” Thor continued, impossibly louder. The maggot soldiers now had machine guns and a lifetime supply of acid. “Oh, it’s a marvellous story, you see, he–”

“Save it. You,” Tony interrupted sharply. He resisted the urge to lift his hands to his ears, pointed to Steve, and then gestured to the state of the room. “What happened here?”

“Pillow fight. Arrow dodging contest. Miscalculations of punches,” Steve said without looking up from the try not to laugh video he was watching. When Tony narrowed his eyes at it he simply said, “tryin’ a get myself acquainted with pop culture,” as if that was an excuse for turning a blind eye to the obvious chaos that had unfolded around him.

The resident hawk flicked a pencil at Tony’s head and Tony looked up at him, craning his neck and wondering how the fuck Clint had managed to get up there. Tony's unamused, annoyed look intensified.

“Barton, get down from there or I swear to you the next time this thing is rebuilt I’ll leave out the vents,” Tony commanded, trying his hardest to sound stern (ahem, thanks Steve for all your help, totally super helpful sitting there on your beanbag).

Clint just tapped his hearing aid. “Thor’s little magic trick broke my ears.”

Tony relayed the threat to him in ASL and the bird fanatic shot a glare but stayed put out of sheer spite.

It was then that Steve noticed Bruce’s crocs. The supersoldier’s face lit up with childish excitement and his phone was tossed aside.

“What are thooooose?!” Steve asked with an exaggerated motion towards the scientist’s choice of footwear, emphasising the last word and looking extremely proud of himself.

Bruce just stared blankly, slightly baffled. “Uh, well, um, they’re like sandals? But they’re plastic? With holes in them?” he tried to explain. “They’re called Crocs? Did you have Crocs in the 40s?”

Steve doubled over and fell to his beanbag laughing like a child. Bruce looked at Tony with a helpless expression and Tony just shrugged, having no idea what Steve was giggling at and honestly kind of over it. When Steve finally gathered himself, he tried to explain.

“You know… like the meme?” he said between wheezes and deep breaths.

A silence followed as blank stares and disappointed looks were exchanged.

Tony sighed. “Steve… maybe take a break from meme culture.”

“We will never speak of this moment again,” Bruce said.

“Agreed,” affirmed Nat.

“Too late,” Clint called, swinging his legs from his ledge. “I already posted it. #steverodgersthememelord is trending on Twitter.”

“Thought your hearing aid was busted?” Nat asked and Clint gave a mischievous grin. She shook her head. “You absolute asshole.”

If he wasn’t incredibly overstimulated, Tony might have actually smiled. Instead, he walked over to the sofa, settling in the corner with his favourite blanket (the only one that hadn’t been ripped up, for some reason). Fatigue was beginning to set in, replacing his anger slowly but surely. Bickering ensued in the background, and voices like daggers stabbed and painfully twisted into Tony’s head. He drowned them out with his noise-cancelling headphones, thankful everyone was too busy arguing (were they arguing? Teasing? Tony had no idea) to take notice of his state. He vibed on the couch for a while. His right hand rose, elbow leant on the plush armrest of the sofa, and his fingers began to move to his music. His hand clenched into a fist and opened again to the beat of Shoot to Thrill, which then transitioned into soft, flowy movements of his individual fingers to the lyrics. His hand moved up and down slightly and waved in the air, an involuntary movement that he didn’t usually notice. After a while, his left hand began to join in and slap the side of the couch to the beat of the drums. No one seemed to see, and if they did they didn’t comment on it.

Slowly, the hazy fog of overstimulation began to fade away into a full-body shiver and a quick slam of feet on the floor. He relaxed with the dopamine hit and grinned, though swiftly hid the display of relief remembering he had company.

Tony’s playlist repeated twice before everyone eventually crowded around the couch, chatting away. They were getting louder – too loud for his headphones to keep out – so Tony turned up the music and began to rock back and forth to cope. His hands dropped to his sides, no longer vibing in the air. And then something about the energy in the room shifted and the others got a little quieter, their conversations fading to slightly hushed whispers. For a while, Tony thought it was just his louder music, but when he turned it down he realised it was not. Strange, he thought, but probably not to do with him. He considered the possibility, but tossed it aside and reminded himself they had no obligation to do anything for him, hadn’t been ordered to by Fury or anything, so why would they?

A tap on his shoulder shot Tony back into the present. He jumped and flinched away, the physical contact like a bowling ball to the face. Steve pulled his hand back and winced, and if the bowling ball were there he’d have probably tossed it out the window with an apologetic look.

“We’re gonna watch a movie. You were zoned out, figured I might let you know,” he informed Tony hesitantly.

Tony was a little confused at Steve’s reaction but nodded all the same. What did that slightly furrowed brow mean? The calculating looks? The uncertainty in Steve’s gestures, as if he was afraid to accidentally brush Tony’s shoulder as he motioned to the rest of the group?

Shit, he was staring.

“Oh. Right. Yeah. What’re we watching?” Tony said a little too sharply, a little too demanding. His stomach immediately dropped with embarrassment but, after searching Steve’s smile and finding it unwavering, his heart rate returned to normal within a few moments.

Huh. He could’ve sworn his tone had been disrespectful.

“Some movie from the 80s that Clint likes. Says it's about a kid who likes birds,” was all Steve replied with.

“And you’re sure it's not just his biography?” Tony joked.

Steve just chuckled (chuckled!), not giving an irritated headshake or the eyebrows of disapproval as he usually did when Tony told a joke. Tony stored the banger in the back of his mind since it must’ve been good to gain Steve’s approval.

“We’re getting pizza, if that’s ok?”

If that’s ok … what? Something was going on, why was he being so accommodating all of a sudden? When they’d met, it was like Steve had had some unspoken, immediate grudge towards Tony. But it wasn’t like Tony was complaining – it was nice not having to constantly keep up a cold, uncaring demeanour, shooting out wisecracks and insults like some twisted vending machine. He let his “I know I’m unlikeable, it’s my whole personality” exterior falter for a second, testing the waters. A genuine smile, eye crinklies and all, claimed Tony’s face for its own and he let it. But Steve looked away and shot what looked like a smirk at the rest of the team so Tony hastily drew up the walls again, face going back to as close to “unamused and unaffected” as he could get. He cleared his throat, looking away.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, that’s fine. Peperoni, thanks,” he said a little too quickly, a little too loudly.

“Righto,” nodded Steve.

The Star Spangled Man stood up and headed back to the kitchen where everyone else had gathered but Tony stayed put, thinking back to his original goal. Everyone was being so nice, having such fun. Maybe he could put off spilling all his troubles to them for a moment more. After all, he’d probably ruin the mood. A few minutes passed, he put on his headphones again and began to fiddle with his blanket. It was grey and soft with wear, no seams or embroidery or anything scratchy. The tag had long been cut off, of course. Tony rubbed the blanket between his fingers and smiled at the texture, making sure to keep an eye out for any of his team members coming back to the couch.

It was about half an hour until the pizza arrived and everyone gathered around the coffee table (the dining table had been used as an archery target and was currently out of action). Bruce had ordered some gross vegetarian pizza, Nat and Clint shared a supreme but Nat picked off the mushrooms, Thor had three plain cheeses because of course he did, and Tony and Steve both had their own pepperonis. The room went quiet as everyone ate in silence. Clint didn’t eat his crusts which was apparently “absolutely unacceptable” in the Rodgers household. Steve subsequently slapped the archer’s current slice out of his hand and told him off, saying he “didn’t live through the fuckin depression just to have all you little shits waste perfectly good food”. Four pizza crusts were subsequently shoved down Clint’s throat whilst everyone else looked on with mixed expressions of horror and amusement.

Tony also hated crusts.

No one commented on that.

“So,” started Nat after she’d finished her meal,” any chance any of you boys are going to clean this mess up?” She gestured to the unbridled chaos of the living space.

Clint went to say “no” but Nat glared at him and he immediately nodded.

“Of course! It is an Asgardian custom to always clean up after a good time,” Thor boomed. “In fact, this one time, my brother Loki–”

“Of course,” Steve interrupted. “And shut up about Loki, he’s a war criminal.”

“War… criminal…?” Thor questioned. “I do not understand.”

Tony saw an opportunity. He faltered slightly, face lighting up and then dimming again, hesitation for fear of rejection or teasing clear in his eyes, but decided to run with it.

“I do!” Tony said with a terrible impersonation of Steve, proud expression and everything. “I understood that reference!”

The team burst out laughing and Steve went red with embarrassment.

The conversation continued, jumping back and forth between Thor trying to tell stories about Loki and Steve talking about stuff from the ‘40s. Clint periodically peered out the nearest window to the street below, looking up at Tony every now and then, though Tony wasn’t sure what he saw since the only area he’d be able to see in the dark was the footpath outside the tower entrance.

“So I guess I thought the future would be a little more… accepting, y’know? But it turns out most of the issues we dealt with back then are–”

Steve was cut off by Jarvis. “Sir, Miss Potts and Cornel Rhodes are in the foyer.”

“Ah, shit,” Tony cursed and peeled himself off the couch.

“Called it!” whooped Clint with much enthusiasm.

How the hell had they gotten here so quickly? They’d’ve had to have left only an hour or so after Tony, Bruce, and Nat! And they had to turn up just when Tony was starting to settle in. God, it was like the universe just didn’t want him to be happy. He waved to Jarvis, motioning to let the pair in despite his annoyance in doing so. Thankfully, the hand motion served as a little stim which helped with his built-up nerves. Rhodey and Pepper made quick work of heading up. The elevator was quick; Tony liked it that way.

The rest of the team was continuing their conversation behind Tony in rather hushed voices. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Pepper and Rhodey arrived at the floor. The metal doors opened to reveal Pepper, simmering with rage, and Rhodey gave an awkward “I’m sorry” grimace.

Pepper immediately stormed out, sailing right past Tony and probably not even noticing him, and towards the team. Bruce glanced up, a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth, and looked to have a miniature heart attack.

“Crap,” he whispered. “Heyyyyyyy, Miss Potts.”

Bruce stood up with his arms outstretched ever so slightly as if to protect himself to which Tony smirked a little since Pepper wasn’t all that scary to him. Twenty years’d do that to a man. Pepper glared harder.

“Where is he?” she asked, direct and firm. “Tell me he’s not alone in his workshop again freaking out with no one to talk to. Tell me you didn’t KIDNAP him from his home after he CLEARLY told you he didn’t want you around! Honestly, he sucks at communicating but even that was clear! Tell me I don’t need to go post-Afghanistan on him again; that was an absolute nightmare . Christ, am I the only one who cares about his well-being?! Dammit, I swear I’m going to evict…”

In the meantime, Rhodey spotted Tony and clambered over, giving an apologetic look.

“Hey, man. You doing okay? I’m sorry, I tried to stop her, I did, but you know how she gets. Said you were in trouble?” he asked quietly, wincing as Pepper raised her voice higher.

“Rhodes, hey,” Tony greeted him, mirroring his grimace and shying away from the scene Pepper was making, his hands instinctually going to his ears but lowering again as he remembered he had company. “Good to see you.”

“How’s the superhero gig?” Rhodey asked casually as if a volcano wasn’t exploding ten feet away from them. This sort of thing happened a lot, it was usually best to just let Pepper tire herself out.

Tony shrugged. “It has its perks.”

Pepper eventually ran out of rage and quietened down, allowing Bruce to get a word in.

“Uh… he’s over there,” Bruce said quietly, looking like he was trying to shrink as small as he could under Pepper’s gaze. The man really needed to work on standing up for himself.

Pepper whirled around and noticed Tony, running over with her signature “I thought you just died” face. “Tony! Oh, my god. I got home and you weren’t… you weren’t there! Jarvis said you were flying here! Shit, I was so worried, are you alright?” she rambled in a high, anxious, out of breath and panicked.

Tony pried her hands off his shoulders. “Pep, I’m fine , not sure about you, though,” he remarked. “Came here of my own accord, you should be proud, actually.”

“You absolute ass,” Pepper frowned. “You could’ve told me!”

“Look, I’m glad you’re looking out for me, but I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Double sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Can I stay and make sure?”

“...Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Tony waved her and Rhodey to the couch. “We’re watching a movie. It’s about birds or something, I don’t know, Bird Man chose it.”

“It’s called The Boy Who Could Fly,” piped Clint as Tony, Pepper, and Rhodey sat down in various places, Tony back with his blanket, Pepper on a beanbag, and Rhodey on a discarded couch cushion. “It was my favourite movie back as a kid.”

“So it’s not bird themed?” Bruce asked.

“Eh, you’ll see.”

The Boy Who Could Fly turned out to be some movie from the 80s that Clint had on DVD. Funnily enough, there was an autistic character. The film, of course, was not the best quality representation, but it was representation at least. It was bearable. Partway through the movie, autism was first mentioned and Tony looked around to gauge the team’s reactions.

Pepper, Bruce, and Nat all glanced at Tony quickly but looked away immediately and tried to focus on the film. Rhodey nodded, returning his gaze to his phone which he’d been texting on throughout the entire film. Clint simply continued with his grumpy-cat-resting-face. Thor was chewing a pop tart without a care in the world and Steve had a confused expression that was bordering on disapproval.

Disapproval.

Oh, no, no, no, dammit. Tony’s thought process shot out a slew of curse words. He returned his gaze to the film but couldn’t truly focus, running through all the possible things Steve might say. He’d grown up in far different times, back when disability wasn’t so widely accepted. Times may have changed, but minds were far more resistant to such vast changes in ideals. (Sidenote: why was breathing so hard all of a sudden?) Tony’s thoughts turned to catastrophizing, rolling through everything that was going to happen next. Steve was going to figure out and tell the press and then everyone would know Tony was autistic, that he was different, and they’d see how much of a failure he was. All his success was made on the shoulders of his father’s company, his father’s history, his father’s name – he’d never have made it without. Tony was weak, he was different, and that was bad, bad, bad. Howard’s voice echoed in his mind. He would never be good enough, could never live up to him, would always be leaning on the success of his predecessor. Tony was worthless, absolutely worthless, and everyone was going to find out.

Huh?

There it was… a hand hovering over his shoulder.

A look tossed his way.

Nat had noticed him rocking back and forth; he’d probably been shaking the couch cushions, disrupting her experience.

“Sorry,” he whispered, voice laced with shame.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Nat replied. “I’ve watched this like seven times, I can quote entire scenes. Clint really likes this movie.”

“We’re talking now?” Clint asked. “Righto everybody, it’s time to chat. Talk all you like!”

“Really?” Tony tilted his head. “But it’s a movie…”

“Cut the snark, Stark,” Steve reprimanded, making Tony slink back into a shell of submission. Great, they hated him now.

“Talk? Oh, wonderful. You see, I have many a question,” said Thor, also not taking the hint. “First of all, what is wrong with this human boy? He has spoken not a word the entire film, and I find that quite disconcerting.”

Tony covered his face with his hands, trying to pass it off as annoyance at Thor’s ignorant question but really it was just to cover the twisted, shameful expression that was refusing to leave his features.

“He’s got a disorder,” Steve said. “Cut the kid some slack.”

“A disorder? Like the Man of Iron?”

Tony had a heart attack, choking on his breath and snapping up to stare at Thor.

“Pff, no, Tony’s just weird, Thor,” Clint chuckled.

Thank God.

“What is au-tism?” Thor asked, sounding out the syllables like a foreign word.

Clint shrugged. “Dunno much ‘bout it. Mute kids waving their hands around ‘s all I’ve seen of it.”

Tony couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t bare to see Thor wandering around thinking that was all autism was, and couldn’t bear saying silent when he so desperately wanted to correct Clint. So his impulsivity took over and all of a sudden he was speaking.

“Autism is a disorder that affects the way a person thinks, feels, and interacts with the world,” he started. “It’s a lifelong condition characterised by difficulties in social communication, restrictive, repetitive, or sensory behaviours or interests, and significant impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of current functioning,” Tony recited. His legs were swinging on the edge of the couch. “Autistic people may not be able to speak, might misunderstand facial expressions and body language, or take language too literally. They might have difficulty in conversation, need more time alone than most people, or feel uncomfortable socialising with others.”

Blank faces stared back at him. Was that a regular amount of information?

“Tones, did you just paraphrase the entire DSM-5 to us?” Rhodey asked sceptically.

“Shit, yeah I think I did,” he agreed with an awkward laugh. “I, uh, read the second edition in a closet in the fourth grade. I’ve got the fifth edition if any of you want to read it…?”

“Wait, wait, my turn!” called Clint. “Dooooo… OCD!”

Tony scoffed, “I don’t know anything about OCD, better off asking someone who actually has it.”

A silence draped itself over the room. Various expressions greeted Tony as he realised what he’d just implied. Ah, shit . He examined them with a panicked expression of his own, fingers rubbing the fabric of his shirt together with anxiety.

Rhodey: narrowed his eyes with a raised eyebrow. Either concerned or suspicious. The slight smile may have indicated amusement.

Clint: emotionless. Likely deducing using his epic spy skills.

Bruce: wide eyes and trying to hold back a yelp. Halfway to death with the shock that Tony had actually given it away.

Nat: even more emotionless than Clint. Gave a smirk as Tony’s eyes met her forehead.

Thor: nodded, and turned back to his pop tart like this was barely news to him. Come to think of it, it probably was.

Pepper: the only one who was actually watching the movie. Couldn’t care less about their conversation, was very emotionally invested in the romance.

Steve: ha, now this one was gold. You know that face people make when they’ve been told shocking news but they’re halfway through chugging a glass of sparkling water? Yep. That one.

And then they all snapped back to reality and started rummaging around in their pockets, each one pulling out various dollar bills. Arguments about technicalities and finger counting of months ensued. Pepper looked up and realised what was happening instantly, grabbing her purse and opening her wallet.

Nat handed Bruce a $20 bill. Clint passed Nat $5.80 in quarters. Thor tossed an Asgardian coin to Pepper who caught it without even looking up from her purse. Pepper slipped two $100 to Rhodey who had the single most smug “I told you so” face in the history of “I told you so” faces. And everyone but Pepper and Rhodey reluctantly threw additional $2 bills at Bruce with various cries of protest.

Tony just sat there, looking flabbergasted. “You BETTED ON ME?!” he spluttered.

The room erupted with hysterical laughter.

“Pepper and I have had this one going for more than twenty years, Tones,” Rhodey chuckled.

“We made a pool a few weeks ago,” Clint admitted.

“Thor and I made a bet two minutes ago while you weren’t looking,” said Pepper.

“Bruce and I betted on whether you were going to tell them tonight,” Nat revealed. “Seems I overestimated your ability to choose your words carefully. You owe me $20 in damages, I’ll charge it to your credit card.”

Steve gasped dramatically. “He told you?!”

“You have my credit card?” Tony exclaimed.

“I promised not to tell anyone,” Nat said to Steve, and Tony found nothing but sincerity behind her eyes. He smiled a little at her loyalty but quickly scowled, remembering he was meant to be mad.

Steve pouted. “I want my $2 back.”

“No can do.” Nat shoved the dollar bills in her back pocket and smirked.

“But back to the subject, YOU BETTED ON ME?!” Tony repeated again.

“It was a friendly bet! For fun!” Bruce tried to defend himself.

“Do you know how much easier my life would have been if I’d known you’d known?” cried Tony with an exasperated sigh.

“Well, it was only a theory. Clint thought you were possessed so it wasn’t exactly concrete.” Steve attempted to explain. “I was sceptical, too,” he said sheepishly.

Tony buried himself in his blanket in embarrassment. “Ugh, just play the movie,” he groaned, voice muffled by the fabric. “And don’t wake me up.”

Chapter Text

Nightmares had always been something Tony struggled with. From a disapproving father to Afghanistan and wormholes, he was pretty used to waking up in a cold sweat, shaking and panicking. Every hardship he faced was allocated a specific four to five month period of nightmares, so it only seemed fitting for the Avengers to be given a spot to kick him off the team and hurl ableist insults from the doorway as he packed his bags. Anything less would be inadequate, unimaginable even.

That didn’t make it any less horrifically real, of course.

Tony awoke to the familiar sensation of his stomach dropping followed by uncontrollable shivering and a deep sense of dread. It may have happened often, but every time he felt like he was experiencing it for the first time with no idea what was going on as he was pulled from such seemingly inescapable terror. It was unsettling, this feeling of complete loss of control, loneliness, isolation, and panic. Tony clutched his pillow tighter and drew in a sharp breath, almost a hiss.

“...be okay, leave him be…”

“...can’t just…”

“...freak out if you stir…”

“...know what he’s feeling, just let me… shouldn’t be alone…”

Voices faded in and out, one hushed and distinctly female, one low and male. Tony’s eyes were still closed, squeezed shut, even, as his awareness slowly reassembled. He gripped the pillow again, willing the terror that coursed through his veins away so he could think clearly again.

Hold up.

Why in the hell were people in his room?

He didn’t remember…

SHIT.

Was what Tony was trying to say as he clambered to the surface of his consciousness, breaking free and jolting awake instantly. A muffled, panicked noise escaped his throat and his eyes went wide, brows raised in shock and fear. He was lying on the sofa, legs sprawled across a sleeping Bruce’s waist, knees brushing Pepper’s head, and face nuzzled up against Steve FUCKING Rodgers’ side.

DOUBLE SHIT.

Tony immediately pulled his face away from Steve and lifted his torso up from the sofa by his arms. He scrambled away until he was holding himself up on his knees with another garbled yelp. Tony surveyed the room, panicked eyes flitting around to check if anyone had seen. Nat and Steve were the only ones awake, and they were currently staring at him.

“Crap. Crap, I’m sorry,” he hastily apologised and lifted his legs off Bruce without waking him.

Tony leapt off the couch as he spoke and gave some more uttered apologies, slowly backing away towards the elevator. God, they were going to mock him, call him weak, sick, a freak. He braced himself for a slew of insults, motioning to Jarvis to open the fucking elevator and do it quick.

“Sorry, Tony, did we wake you?” Steve asked softly.

Tony did a double take. He searched Steve’s sympathetic smile suspiciously, scouring his features for a mocking smirk or a humorous hue, but found nothing but genuine kindness.

“Erm, uh, yeah, but no, but…” Tony trailed off, not really sure what to say. “Nothing like a nightmare to start your morning!” he joked to try and lighten the mood and dampen the tension that filled the air. When neither of them responded, he filled the silence with another quip. “No rest for the wicked, am I right?”

It was a terrible joke, of course, and Tony didn’t even know if he’d used it right; the meanings of neurotypical idioms were anyone’s guess. But Steve released a soft chuckle and shook his head. Shook his head, wait, didn’t he do that when he was mad? Tony faltered, confused, and chuckled back awkwardly.

Natasha observed from the sidelines, amused, and snorted. Tony’s gaze flicked to her, almost pleading.

“What did I– wait– what?” he asked, a jumble of incoherent words. Tony looked back at Steve. “You… shook your head…?”

Steve just raised a brow. “Mhm?”

Tony frowned.

“He’s prompting you to elaborate,” Nat clarified.

“Oh, right,” he nodded. “You… usually shake your head when you’re mad? It’s probably nothing. No, I’m just stupid, it’s okay, I’ll just…” Tony slowly backed into the now open elevator.

Now it was Steve’s turn to frown (which made Tony’s stomach plummet). “Sorry, no, gosh, don’t go – I was just amused at your corny joke, nothing more.”

“I’m still gonna…” Tony said as he entered the elevator and pressed the button for his floor. “Sorry.”

“Ditching us already? It’s been, what, half a minute?” Steve called with a smile. “Nah, you go clean up. Trust I’ll see you down here later.”

Tony smirked at Steve’s first few sentences, glad that he wasn’t treating him too differently at least in the bickering ballpark. His expression faded to confusion again when the doors closed. Why hadn’t either of them brought up his nightmare? Or anything from the night before? Not that he was complaining – he’d gladly go his whole life without such a vulnerable conversation – but it seemed out of character for the “your business is my business” assassin and the “God bless America, look at me so kind and perfect” supersoldier.

Tony cast the confusion aside and thought back to last night and how he’d finally been able to let go of his secret, causing a ghost of a smile to flash across his face while he stood in the elevator. When the doors opened and he stepped out onto his floor, he didn’t have to mask anymore and an overwhelming feeling of relief both at unmasking and finally having his secret off his chest washed over him. His arms gave an aggressive flick, short and sharp, expressing his joy and energy, and he jumped up and slammed his feet on the ground.

Tony cleaned up, had a shower, brushed his teeth, and changed, all the things he normally did in the morning. It took him a good hour, and the alone time gave him space to reflect. Perhaps he could get behind the new, surprisingly accommodating behaviour that the team was displaying. After all, his heart had given a million little squeezes each time someone had said something nice or done something kind the night before, a feeling that was almost alien to him. But some part of him, some incessant, insecure part of him, was telling him he wasn’t worth it. Tony sat down on his comfy chair, massaging the bridge of his nose with two fingers. That little part of his mind got louder and louder until it was deafening and he furrowed his brow, standing up and grabbing the nearest object which happened to be a mug. He pegged the porcelain mug at a nearby wall and it shattered into a million pieces, spraying all over a desk and the floor around him. Tony jumped back with a yelp and hissed as a shard sliced the side of his arm.

DUM-E tilted its mechanical limb and gave a questioning whirring noise to which Tony simply glared.

“Clean it up,” he ordered, pointing at the mess.

The robot complied and Tony paced back and forth, making his way to his kitchen and resting a hip against the counter as he chewed his nails, deep in thought. He decided he needed coffee. Lots of coffee. Yes, that was his problem. He was just tired. Tony grabbed a piece of scrap metal from his coffee table to fiddle with and walked back to the elevator, hoping everyone had cleared out in the hour he’d been gone.

The doors to the elevator opened and Tony stepped out, not looking up from his makeshift fidget for a few moments.

It was only then that he realised the entire Team Plus Pepper And Rhodey was seated on and around the sofa, silent and staring at him.

“Damn, it’s like half a dozen Shining Twins in here, what’s going on?” Tony laughed as he made his way to the coffee machine.

Silence.

The coffee machine whirred.

Then, more unsettling silence.

“Tony, we’ve gotta talk,” Bruce finally said.

“No, we don’t,” replied Tony dismissively, bending and straightening his scrap metal with one hand and operating the machine with the other.

“Come sit down,” Nat offered and patted the armchair next to her.

Tony hesitated and then huffed. “Fine. But only ‘cause I was planning to anyways.”

“Of course,” Rhodey said with a soft smile.

The armchair squeaked beneath Tony as he sat down, placing his cup of coffee on the table in front of him and fiddling with his piece of scrap. He cast a gaze around.

“You know, I feel like you’re ganging up on me,” he said.

His heart was beating just a little faster and he could feel pre-panic-attack adrenaline course through him, so he cleared his throat and let out a breath.

“You’re a pain in the ass, Tony,” Steve started.

“Thanks,” Tony said, looking away to hide how much that stung.

“But you’re our pain in the ass,” Steve continued. “We want to try and do better to help your ass-pain go– you know, the metaphor kind of got away from me there, but you know what I mean.”

The rest of the room laughed a little stiffly.

“You’re awful at reassurance,” Tony emphasised as he shook his head.

Steve facepalmed and chuckled, “Well, what I was trying to say is that we’re here for you.” His expression turned more serious. “But we can’t do it alone. It’s a two-way street – you’ve gotta help us out.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Tony replied, shifting in his seat.

“Why not?” Bruce inquired.

“I…” The words caught in his throat. “It’s not your problem, okay? I’m not…”

“Worth it?” Clint piped in, finishing Tony’s sentence for him with a sad tone in his voice. “Yeah. Yeah, I get that. You’re wrong, though.”

“Tony, you flew a nuke into space to save the world. You’re worth it,” Rhodey said.

Tony shook his head and frowned. “Why does… why does everyone keep bringing that up?” he muttered, voice barely audible.

“Hm?” Steve hummed questioningly, probably asking him to elaborate.

“Why does everyone keep bringing that up? Like it takes saving the fucking world for me to be worthy of anything?” Tony asked, his voice slowly getting louder and louder with every word. “If I need that many brownie points to outweigh my actions, my sins, I was NEVER worth it.”

He was aware of his volume, of the rage radiating from his tone, but didn’t care anymore. They needed to understand. They needed to realise he was a lost cause, a burden they shouldn't have to carry.

“We’ve all done awful things, okay? We don’t care whether you’re worth it or not, Tony,” said Bruce. “We want to help.”

Tony just looked down at his feet and gave a non-committal murmur. He usually liked all the attention being on him – hell, he’d been called narcissistic and self-obsessed on multiple occasions – but here, with all their eyes on him, he had to stop himself from squirming. Vulnerability was never his strong suit and here, under all this pressure, he let out a long sigh and ran his palm down his face.

“Look, can I just… get Jarvis to send you a spreadsheet or something?” he asked, less of a question and more of a statement. He didn't give anyone time to protest, slamming his hands down on the coffee table to pull himself to his feet and grabbing his espresso. “Yeah, that’s it, I’ll do that.”

“Oh, Tony, don’t…” Pepper called out, reaching a hand out to him but not trying to stop him.

The rest of the team just stared on in awkward silence as Tony headed to the elevator. He faltered for a moment, waiting for someone else to demand he come back, but when no one did he shrugged and the elevator whisked him back to his floor.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

Tony did, in fact, write up a spreadsheet. It contained all the basic information, signs of overstimulation, what to do if he had a meltdown, things he doesn't like, etc, etc, all without the vulnerability or humiliation that clogged his throat every time he tried to say things like that out loud.

He’d always preferred communicating over email or text; he could say what he wanted without having to interpret body language or school his expression. The only downfall was that he couldn’t tell the tone of plain text messages very well. Luckily, he wasn’t expecting a reply to his spreadsheet – at least, not in the form of a message. He’d know if everyone understood it if they actually took into consideration his suggestions, admittedly something that would be difficult to measure if he holed himself up in his room any longer.

Tony paced back and forth, hand swishing around at his sides, with a contemplative look on his face. It had only been a couple of hours since he’d sent the email but he was physically shaking with worry about how it would be received. He’d had to shut his laptop the moment he’d pressed send because of the sheer amount of panic and immediate regret that had plummeted his stomach to the depths of the underworld.

Jarvis broke through his train of thought. “Sir, if I might suggest–”

“Not now, buddy,” Tony said, and the pain in his voice must have been extremely potent as Jarvis promptly silenced himself.

Jarvis spoke again after a few more minutes of allowing Tony to pace uninterrupted. “Sir, I understand I am only a computer program, but would you like to… perhaps, talk?”

Tony narrowed his eyes. “Talk about it? No, I don’t want to talk about it, Jarvis,” he spat. “You wouldn’t understand, anyways. No one does.” He balled his hands into fists. “That’s the problem. They don’t see me as I do, okay? I have to give them a fucking instruction manual on how to deal with me. I’m so much work and… and they’re all going to realise it and I’m going to be alone… I’m going to be alone again…”

“You told me you didn’t want to talk, Sir,” Jarvis reminded him with a hint of humour.

“Ha ha,” said Tony, his voice sharp and sarcastic. “Got what you wanted?”

“Well, yes, I believe I did, Sir. You have ceased pacing and your vitals have returned to normal.”

Tony looked down at his legs which were very much not moving anymore, and couldn’t help but let a slight smile creep up his face and nest there for the time being.

“Thanks, J. This is why you’re my favourite,” he hummed.

DUM-E gave a sad whirr and Tony flicked it across its mechanical arm.

“Did you clean up?” he asked suspiciously, “'cause if you didn’t I’m going to have to recycle your parts and have some sad MIT students turn you into a toaster.” Tony walked over to the crime scene from earlier, now spotless, and nodded approvingly. “Adequate. You’re off the hook.”

He let himself relax onto his wheely chair and pushed off of a wall, sending himself and the chair gliding across the floor. As the chair lost momentum, Tony rested his chin on his hand and huffed. Less panicked and now with a clearer mind, he made a decision and, again, walked back to the elevator to head upstairs.

Boy, he was spending a lot of time in this elevator.

≿————-　❈　————-≾

As the doors opened (sidenote: Tony had a ton of good ideas to make the mechanism smoother including one with similar motors to his Iron Man suit, and that definitely wasn’t because he was trying not to think about the upcoming conversation), Tony felt an immediate change in mood, as if the air itself could sense something had shifted.

The living space was quiet; Bruce was reading, Clint was brooding, Thor was playing MarioKart in a blanket nest, Steve was doing the dishes even though they had three dishwashers for that, and Nat was surveying the room in silence. Pepper and Rhodey must’ve left earlier, as their bags weren’t at the doorway anymore.

It was raining outside, a slight drizzle, and the lights were out, so the room was draped in a soft blue-tinted darkness. The atmosphere felt gentle. A little violin music played in the background accompanied by some piano. It wasn’t sad, but instead brought forth some sort of peaceful tranquillity.

No attention was paid to Tony when he entered apart from a quick glance from Nat and a nod from Bruce, as everyone just seemed pretty engrossed in their activities. The silence was uncomfortable, not because Tony didn’t like silence, but because he’d expected there to be more… questions. It felt unnaturally calm.

“What’s going on?” he eventually asked as he awkwardly made his way to an armchair. “You’re all so unnervingly flat.”

“Shh,” Bruce shot, not looking up from his book.

Nat looked over at Tony, face expressionless as usual. “Midday chillaxing time,” she said quietly as though it was obvious. When Tony raised his eyebrows she added, “Y’know, we all just do our own thing for a couple of hours, wind down and stuff.”

“I did not know that,” Tony stated.

“To be fair, you’re barely up here,” Nat said. “Now, fondly, shut up.”

Tony was glad she’d specified she wasn’t mad at him and assumed she was putting into practice something from his spreadsheet. His gaze flitted around before settling on Steve who was a quarter of the way through six people’s worth of washing up. Tony stood up and headed over to the sink, nodding in greeting as he approached since he’d read that was something people did. Steve’s eyes didn’t leave the dishes but he smiled in acknowledgement.

“Let me help you with that,” Tony said, taking a dishcloth and positioning himself in front of the clean plates to dry them.

Steve looked up, looking a twinge surprised, but gave a warm smile and shuffled over.

“I read your spreadsheet,” Steve said.

Tony glanced over to him, drying a dinner plate. He gave a forced smile, dread sinking in over Steve’s potential reaction.

“It was really great. Thanks for all the information.”

“Huh?” Tony tilted his head and stopped drying the plate.

“It was sort of like reading a mission report. In a good way. Now I know how to navigate things, what to do, all that stuff, so we won’t mess up,” Steve clarified.

Tony hummed in agreement. “Thanks.”

“Nah, thank you.”

“Me? You’re the ones who’re doing all this for me. I– thank you. It’s…” Tony trailed off, trying to find words he hadn’t really said before. “It’s nice to have people make accommodations.”

His heart was squeezing in all the wrong places, places that had long been neglected, warmed by the sheer amount of care in Steve’s eyes as he nodded sincerely. It felt wrong, but he didn’t think to care. Tony’s smile deepened as he noticed his comfort blanket was being guarded by Clint, the only one that hadn’t been taken by Thor to build his blanket nest. He felt his stomach swoop when he realised Thor had muted the MarioKart music and that Bruce’s book was about neurodiversity. Newfound joy sparked deep in his chest at the sight of the headphones and piece of scrap leaning against Nat’s chair. All the little things began to click together and a little crease formed by the sides of his eyes that intensified the deeper he smiled, his emotion genuine and overwhelming.

They cared.

They actually cared.

Tony’s hands clasped together hovering over his sternum and his chin lowered to rest on them. He looked up at the rest of the team through his lashes, the smile evolving into a childish grin. The warm joy bubbled out of him with a flap of his hands and a pitter-patter of his feet to which the entire team looked up and smiled back before returning to their activities.

This. This was what family felt like. It was… well, it didn’t feel like home; nothing ever did. But it felt like somewhere he could learn to call home. Somewhere he could learn to love. And now, in this moment, he embraced it.