Work Text:
Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own
Steve was no stranger to being helped. He wished it wasn’t so, but he was. His ma was first, sleeping in uncomfortable cots in hospitals, or sleeping on the floor next to his bed so that she’d be near in case he needed her at night, or pinching pennies and going without breakfast and lunch so she could afford his medicine. And then there was Bucky, who saw Steve getting the shit kicked out of him and had come to help without a second thought. He’d led Steve to his apartment where Mrs. Barnes had fussed over him with bandages and Bucky’s sisters had stared at him with wide, curious eyes, and then they’d insisted on feeding him. And then there were Dr. Erskine and Howard Stark and Project Insight to help him become Captain America, who looked at him and saw what he could be instead of what he was.
And then there was Peggy, who had never found him lacking at all. Steve wondered if he’d ever find someone like her again. Ached when he realized he probably wouldn’t, but for all the wrong reasons—everyone thought he was perfect now. The perfect specimen of a man. The perfect height, the perfect weight, with perfect musculature. There was nothing to find lacking in the first place.
“Wow, and I thought I was a hot mess,” Tony said, looking him up and down with sharp, calculating eyes. “And believe me. I’m an expert in hot messes.”
Steve glanced at himself in a store window. Aside from being grimy with alien gore and dust from collapsing buildings, he didn’t think he looked that bad. He noticed Natasha giving him the same look Tony was and felt exhausted down to his bones. He didn’t know what they were seeing. He looked fine.
.-.
They moved into the tower, mostly because Tony invited them but partly for their own, selfish reasons. Steve didn’t say that he liked that the doors opened before he touched them, because he’d broken at least half a dozen at SHIELD. He didn’t say that he loved that he could walk into a kitchen and know it had enough food for him, because he’d always felt guilty taking thirds and fourths at the mess hall. He didn’t say that he appreciated the way that no one cared who he was beyond ‘Steve, you’re tall and Clint’s an asshole, get my coffee off the top of the refrigerator,’ because he was tired of being looked at and seen as Captain America first and Steve Rogers second.
It came to a head when he found Tony on the floor when he woke up on the couch one morning. Steve blinked at him blearily, managing a mumbled 'what’ before Natasha covered his mouth.
“You were having a nightmare, but you told us not to wake you in case you come up swinging, so he sat with you and talked to you until he fell asleep himself. You woke up just long enough to drape a blanket over him before you passed out face-first in the cushion,” Natasha told him, and then rolled her eyes, but the action was filled with affection. “You’re such a disaster, Steve. What would you do without Tony’s help?”
Steve blinked up at her, too stunned to say anything for a moment. After some thought, though, he asked, “Do you think he’s doing it out of pity?” Even as he said it, though, he knew the answer. Tony never did anything out of pity, only sympathy, only empathy.
“It’s okay to need help, Steve,” Natasha said, because she knew the question wasn’t meant for her, not really. “And Tony knows a thing or two about soldiering on alone without help.”
“…What should I do about it?” Steve asked, even though he knew exactly what he should do about it.
Natasha seemed to know that too. “Let him sleep a little longer,” she saids, just to watch Steve frown in frustration. “He was up pretty late trying to talk you out of a nightmare, after all.”
“Yeah,” Steve agreed, trying to sound guilty but mostly just sounding fond.