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“Ow, fuck, shit!”
Tony clutches his hand where a small burn is already coloring his skin and scowls at the dreadful noise surrounding him.
“Yeah, yeah, I got it. Shut it, J.”
The soldering iron cools with a faint click as he sets it aside, fingers closing around the knee plate that had clattered to the floor when the Avengers alarm blared to life. He exhales sharply, gaze flicking to the pulsing red alert on the nearest screen. At three in the morning. Of course.
Somewhere out there, a villain is making a mess of the city with all the self-awareness of a cat knocking things off a counter. The least they could do is have the decency to wait until sunrise. But Tony’s had worse — worse timing, worse threats, worse nights.
At least this one barely registers as an inconvenience. A low-level alert, nothing world-ending. The guilt of ignoring it would have been negligible, but he still stretches, rolls his shoulders, and reaches for the armor, not bothering to hide the overdramatic sigh as JARVIS secures his work behind layers of encryption.
Maybe the fight will exhaust him, knock the restlessness loose from his bones. He hadn’t planned on sleeping, but fate works in strange, inconvenient ways.
He’s nearly all suited up when the comms go live.
“I’m two minutes away, I was already in the area. ETAs?” Romanoff asks, which makes Tony’s steps falter for a second — this was always Rogers’ question.
“I’ll be there in five,” Tony replies, checking the route on his HUD.
“I’m at the Tower; anyone I can steal a ride from?” Bruce’s tone is grumpy, likely laced with sleep.
Low-priority missions like these don’t usually require the Quinjet or a preemptive Hulk-out, so Bruce usually carpools with someone who uses grounded means of transportation, which by default rules out flying knights or hammer-yielding Norse gods.
“Hawkeye’s out of state and Thor’s out of planet, so Cap’s your best bet. The four of us should manage this without much hassle, as long as you guys can get going soon. Captain? ETA?” Natasha says, but again, there’s no answer.
It’s very unlike Steve Rogers to not be on top of things, in every area of his life, but especially as Captain America. He’s the embodiment of discipline, of control. Tony knows this all too well. He also knows that Steve is an incredibly light sleeper, something Tony’s learned over the past few months, living in close quarters with him, roaming the same quiet halls in the depths of night. So he figures there’s no way Steve didn’t hear the roaring signal. Not unless he’s deliberately ignoring it. And that, Tony can’t quite reconcile with the man he knows.
“Dammit. J, got anything for us?”
“Captain Rogers is currently in his apartment, sir,” JARVIS responds on the communal line.
“What’s he up to?”
“I’m afraid the privacy protocols do not allow me to disclose that information.”
That’s good; it means Steve’s not in any immediate danger, which is the singular circumstance that can revoke the protocol. Still, Tony can’t help but make a quick mental note to tweak JARVIS’s code later, maybe categorize all Avengers alerts and missions as potential threats.
“Alright, then. I’m still at the Tower. I’ll go check on him, give him a lift. It’ll be faster than his bike,” Tony suggests, already in the elevator. “We’ll touch down in eight. Brucie, you might wanna go ahead and Shrek your way out of this one. Cap, if you can hear me, you better be putting on your drawers.”
He makes it to Steve’s floor in no time, overriding the security code to enter the apartment. The living room is vacant and dark, and he can’t pick up on the sound of Steve’s obnoxiously loud combat boots. Anxiety starts to bubble up inside him, but he’s known for jumping to the worst conclusions. He forces himself to push it aside, choosing instead to focus on the annoyance of the delay.
“J, lights on,” he murmurs.
Tony strides to the closed bedroom door and knocks loudly with his gauntlet. He retracts his faceplate as he waits for a response, brow furrowed.
“Sleeping beauty, you in there? Something wrong with your suit? Comms broken?”
When he gets no response, he states his intention to enter, pausing for exactly two seconds before he pushes the door open. Whatever it is that he expected to see, it’s not this.
He’s met with a pitch-black room, the only light coming from the faint glow of Tony’s arc reactor. In one corner, Captain America is crouched down, only half of his uniform on, his face buried in his hands. He doesn’t acknowledge Tony’s presence.
“I got him,” Tony says, then promptly mutes the channel.
A cocktail of dread and confusion courses through his veins as he takes a few careful steps into the room, letting slivers of light from the corridor sneak in through the cracked door. Steve lifts his head ever so slightly, enough to reveal his wide, unfocused eyes, and fuck; if it isn’t a look that Tony has seen many times before, never paired with pleasant circumstances, and never on Steve.
Mainly, Tony’s seen that look in the mirror, an unrecognizable reflection resembling an untamed madman more than the face he wears every day.
While they might not be particularly close, Tony has spent enough time around Steve to become adept at reading the layers concealed beneath his typically stoic mask. Especially with his usual walls lowered, he can incontestably tell that something is seriously wrong with him right now.
He sweeps the room for reassurance, though he’s confident JARVIS would’ve warned him of any issues or unwanted guests. As anticipated, the room presents itself as perfectly safe — nothing out of the ordinary, sans the peculiar way Steve is acting.
He steps out of the suit, leaving only the earpiece on, and gets even closer to his team leader.
“Hey, Cap, it’s okay; you’re safe.” He knows those words don’t amount to much when you’re in the midst of panic, because all logic and rationale go out the window — yet, he needs to say them out loud, maybe more so for his sake.
Tony might not be the most well-equipped person to deal with this, but he’s been on the other side often enough to know a bit about what snaps him out of it. It’s annoying, really, because there’s no clear answer, no consistent plan, no dependable solution — one thing might not even work twice for the same person. Simply assuming how someone else experiences a panic attack is a fool’s game. But he has to try.
He thinks of his own episodes. Sometimes, a hug from Rhodey was the right first step in de-escalating the scene. In those instances, it would make him feel safe, protected by a trusted person, and grounded in his surroundings — which were often a vastly different reality than what his brain was making them to be. Other times, the touch would feel suffocating, as if he was trapped, and he would either have to suffer in silence as he spiraled further, or full-on kick his best friend to make him break contact.
Taking a gamble on what Steve might need, he approaches him with a raised hand. It dwells on him that he must look like a person trying to interact with a wild animal, and that it feels like it, too; but he dismisses the thought right away.
He’s not scared of Steve, not really. Maybe he should be, because who knows what a traumatized supersoldier is capable of when their mind is clouded by anxiety? Alas, the only worry Tony has at the moment is making sure he doesn’t make Steve feel any more uneasy than he already is.
“I’m gonna touch you now, okay?”
He gets no response, but Steve’s eyelids flutter shut and he lets out a small wail. Tony lays a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and Steve shudders as if it’s unbearably heavy. Probably the way his responsibility often feels, Tony’s brain adds. He squeezes, just once, then tries to triangulate Steve’s breathing pattern, and concludes that he must be riding the ending wave of the episode.
“Cap? Can you tell me who I am?”
“T—Tony…” he manages through gasps of air. This is a good sign — it means he isn’t too far gone. Tony withdraws his hand and stoops down to meet his eye level.
“Okay, Steve, dear, you need to breathe. What’s going on in that head of yours, hm? ’Cause nothing bad’s happening out here, it’s just some low-level scum who wanted their fifteen minutes in the ass crack of dawn, well, evening for me, but—”
That must’ve been the wrong thing to say because Steve’s eyes begin to frighteningly scan the room as he attempts to get up, way too fast and with unsteady legs; when he inevitably fails, he clings onto Tony as a crutch to stand.
“No, we have to leave, I gotta go—” he says frantically, chest heaving.
Oh no, this is the opposite of de-escalation.
“Cap—” Tony twists in his hold and reaches for his shoulder again, but Steve shoves harshly, momentarily forgetting his power.
“No, I can push through this. I’m a soldier, for God’s sake. I’m a leader, my team needs me—” he chokes on an inhale.
Not taking his eyes off Steve, Tony presses the button on his earpiece.
“Sitrep?”
“Arms dealer with hostage situation. Hulk and I are on-site, got the target surrounded. You closing in?”
Tony nods to himself, mind already made up.
“No, we’re not en route. Widow, can you two take over this one? I think Cap’s been lying about how badly he got hurt the other day and I gotta patch him up.”
A second of silence, then “Affirmative.”
“You sure? ’Cause I can at least send JARVIS in a suit—”
“Affirmative, Iron Man. Over.”
The line goes dead and Tony tries to banish the nagging conviction that his two friends will die in a stupid mission from the lack of backup, at the hands of Tony’s inability to abandon a distressed Steve Rogers.
If Natasha saw right through his blatant lie, through his obviously misdirected concern, or through the undeniable fact that the serum would have healed Steve by now, she didn’t say anything. She never does say anything, to be fair, no matter how perceptive she is. Tony loves that about her. He’s also really terrified of the fact.
But he pushes all that aside for now. His absurd crush being discovered suddenly feels like the smallest problem in the universe. Steve, still struggling to breathe as he continues to ramble about the mission, with teary eyes and trembling limbs, takes priority.
Tony is well familiar with how this feels; the wave of anxiety washing over you and pulling you inside a bottomless ocean with no apparent recourse of making it out. He suspects, based on the haze painted on Steve’s face, that this might even be one of his first times dealing with it. Tony remembers his first vividly, and he can still taste the feeling of hopelessness and the scar left by the one singular thought he’d had, playing over and over again in an uncontrollable loop: I am dying.
It’s nothing but heat and fury, a fire that burns low in your gut, all the while your veins freeze with unstoppable terror as you’re seeking any and all possible ways to muffle the hellhounds clawing and chewing their way through your cerebral mantle. The kind of gloom that settles deep in your bones and doesn’t make any attempt to escape — unbashful, unforgiving, and unkind. The deep-rooted misery you’ve been carrying since birth, that trickles down your family tree right into your bloodstream and keeps feeding the demons you slowly collect over the years; the same poltergeists that turn your nightmares into their home.
And if you add some self-deprecating shame to the mix, you get a great bundle of sadistic entertainment that’s built to last way past the panic attack is over.
What’s worse, because this was Steve, and Steve and he are halves of the same whole in all the ways that stain their character, Tony has no doubts that this is convincing him that he let the team down in a way a superior never should. Tony wouldn’t be surprised if Steve were going to announce his retirement after this incident.
“Hey, big guy. You’re spiraling a bit. Can you come back to me? I promise nothing bad’s going on, and nothing bad will. You’re safe, we’re all safe.”
In all fairness, that might very well be a lie, as Tony has no idea how the mission is going. But right now, he has an inkling that Steve can’t tell the difference between his anxiety-induced thoughts and an actual apocalypse, so he figures it’s allowed to reassure him.
“No, Tony, if it goes wrong, if something happens to them—”
“Nothing will happen to them, Cap, you need to—”
“—it’s on me, and I can’t—it can’t happen again. I can’t do it again. Oh my God, Tony, I can’t, I can’t do it again—”
A broken sob escapes his mouth as he pushes past Tony once more, hyperventilating while attempting to put on his boots. A sense of unease settles within Tony as the distress unfolds before his eyes. Steve’s face contorts with strain, and beads of sweat form on his forehead as he suffocates, as though an invisible force has wrapped its tentacles around him, squeezing the air from his lungs. Every gasp for breath conveys both an unspoken plea and a determined promise, and the confusion etched on Steve’s face exacerbates the sadness of the situation.
“Can’t do what again, Steve?” Tony asks softly.
Steve gasps, then throws his boot against the wall, one of his picture frames shattering on the floor. He clutches at his chest and bends over as if in pain.
“Can’t let people die on me, because of me.”
Well, fuck. Tony is fuelled by the force to stay strong and level-headed for Steve’s sake, knowing that this needs to be defused as soon as possible because nobody needs a Captain America-sized loose canon, but he’d be lying if he said Steve’s words didn’t cut straight through his heart. How is he supposed to tell him that he shouldn’t worry about it, that it’s not his fault, that he can’t spend your entire life afraid of the worst-case scenario, when Tony can’t even convince himself of that?
He steadies his breathing and takes a careful step toward Steve, who is frozen in place and staring at the shards of glass on the floor.
“Even if that were to happen, that’s… that’s our line of work. We all signed up to this knowing each battle could be our last, and you’re not responsible for any of that.”
Steve pivots, his anger temporarily subsiding. Blue eyes, earnest and glistening, pierce through Tony.
“I… I know that, I know you can’t give up, or fall apart when a soldier dies. I get it, Stark, I was in the war, but this is not the same. This is—I’m too fucking scared to go out there and be with my team.”
Hearing Steve Rogers swear will never not startle Tony; it’s one thing to make sense of the Steve he’s met, and how different, real, and human he is compared to the altar boy history made him to be. It’s another to realize that, while Steve is capable of cursing, he rarely loses his cool enough to let it slip through his usual composed demeanor, especially during missions. For lack of better words, you know shit’s serious when the Captain swears.
“I don’t know why I’m scared to go out and fight. It makes no sense, I’ve never been scared of a fight before. It also makes no sense that I couldn’t breathe just now even though nothing’s attacking me—I know that—and my lungs are way better than any other human’s. It makes no goddamn sense why I turned into an asthmatic little kid again. None of this makes sense!”
It never will make any sense, for panic is devoid of reason. Tony struggles to find the right words to convey this to Steve when his gaze lands on the picture that has flown to the floor from the broken frame, a charcoal sketch that combines Steve’s intrinsic style with practices Tony recognizes from the Psychology of Graphic Design and Modern Art book. The volume had been part of the (objectively excessive) collection he gifted Steve when the man casually mentioned being interested in learning more about contemporary art, and Tony leafed it a bit before offering it to Steve, only to make sure it was worth anything. Whether he ended up devouring the entire thing in one night, hoping to stockpile enough ammunition to impress Steve at any given time, well, that’s nobody’s business.
“Gestalt!”
Steve stares at him in a mixture of curiosity and deep thought, probably questioning whether all sense and logic have abandoned this room entirely.
“The school of thought, it can help us here.”
Tony picks up the paper.
“Think of your panic attack like an art composition, right?” He points at different parts of Steve’s drawing. “You got all these lines, shades, all those details, but the damn gestalt, the big picture, it just won’t come to you. It’s like… your brain’s running on its own made-up algorithm, and all logical connections are faulty data. Or like, you got all these dance moves, and you know they’re the best fucking dance moves in the world, but the choreography’s missing, so it’s all jumbled in the end ’cause nothing ties it together nicely. Your brain’s throwing a party right now that got a bit out of control.”
Whether or not that made any sense is hard to say, but at the very least it seems that Steve’s been so focused on following Tony’s reasoning that he’s forgotten to be tense. He nods his head slowly, then crosses the room and sits down on the edge of the bed, hands in his lap, and eyes unfocused. When it’s clear he’s not about to bolt again, Tony joins him, maintaining a careful distance between them.
“No wonder I’m bad at this, if it’s a choreography I’m missing. I’ve never gone dancing. I had a date for it, but, you know…” he chuckles bitterly.
Tony does, indeed, know.
Steve clenches his eyes tightly, exhaling a sigh. He moistens his lips with his tongue, swallowing heavily, and Tony’s treacherous eyes track the movement of his Adam’s apple without his accord.
“I was dreaming, when the alarm rang. I… I was dreaming of Bucky, of him falling, of me failing him, and I—I’ve failed so many people, so many people died on my watch, and I think—I think I’m the man who’s gonna kill the Avengers. God, I sound crazy, I feel crazy. I’m in no shape to be leading a team dealing with matters of international security.”
He’s always known Steve carries the weight of the world — has seen it in the set of his shoulders, the furrow of his brow when he thinks no one’s looking. But hearing him admit it? Hearing the cracks in his armor laid bare like this? It feels like something sacred and terrible all at once.
“You’re not crazy, Steve, c’mon. You’re traumatized, and you had a nightmare, then a panic attack because of it. You know, shell shock? Although that’s not really an appropriate name for it anymore—”
“Yeah, I know about shell shock, Tony…,” he interrupts. “And that’s a World War I term, by the way, since you’re mentioning using the correct words,” he says with a hint of a smile. “We weren’t quite as backward in the 40s as some of you seem to think. Psychology was a thing, and so were psychologists, and doctors, and Sigmund Freud, and group therapy, and they’d warn us about battle fatigue going in—that’s what we called it. Shell shock, combat fatigue, PTSD… it’s all the same demons. I did my reading on it. I don’t—I don’t think it pertains to me, though.”
Tony raises an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. He knows denial when he sees it; he’s been friends with it most of his life.
“So you’ve read about it, even though you don’t think that’s what you got. How come?”
“I didn’t agree with SHIELD’s mandated therapy, and, to be frank, the psychologist looked scared of me too, so they let me get out of it if I read their resources and did some tests to prove I didn’t need further psychological help.”
Tony lets out a low, incredulous laugh. “So the idiots handed you material that included the signs to look out for, then attempted to diagnose you, not considering even once that you know exactly what you’re supposed to say to fail the test?”
Steve grins faintly, and for a moment, Tony’s chest loosens. “Guess they didn’t think I was capable of lying, with my morals and all.”
“Oh, is that so, Captain 4F? Bunch of idiots, the lot of them. Not to mention you can’t diagnose someone based on a written test alone, you need to get to know them through psychotherapy, analyze their mannerism and reactions…”
Tony’s voice trails off as Steve’s smile lingers, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It never does when the conversation gets too close to the truth.
“How do you know so much about it?” Steve asks, and Tony can’t tell if it’s genuine curiosity or a subtle deflection.
“Pepper talked me into it,” he admits, shrugging. “I, erm, don’t really go to therapy anymore even though I’m totally a nutcase so, you know — pot, kettle. But I have some protocols set up in place now, and J knows what to look out for, and what the safe dose of sedatives is for my heart condition and depending on how drunk I am…”
Tony trails off again, realizing he’s rambling. It’s not like Steve doesn’t already know about his issues, but saying it aloud feels... vulnerable. Raw, in a way he’s not used to.
“I’m no role model, Rogers. But even I try, somewhat. And I’m not in denial about it. Took me some time, though, so… You’ll get there when you’ll get there.”
Steve doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he shifts a little closer on the bed, his eyes softer now, but still shadowed. Tony feels the tension in the air shift, a fragile, unspoken understanding settling between them.
For an instant, Tony doesn’t say anything, doesn’t dare break the illusion. He just watches Steve, wondering, hoping, that maybe, just maybe, the man carrying the weight of the world might let himself lean on someone else, if only for a little while.
But then Steve moves again, ever so slightly. The action is subtle, but Tony notices it — feels the change in the air as Steve’s thigh brushes against his own. It’s all it takes. Tony doesn’t think, doesn’t hesitate. His hand moves before he can stop it, fingers gently resting on Steve’s knee.
He draws a small circle there, slow at first, testing the waters. The touch is light, but it carries everything Tony’s been too afraid to say. His heart pounds in his chest, and for a split second, he wonders if Steve will pull away, if the juncture will collapse into something awkward.
“Tell me about Barnes?”
Steve shuffles even closer, letting his head rest on top of Tony’s, who’s too terrified to even breathe in case it ruins the moment.
“Him and I, we… We were family. He was all I had, after I lost my Ma, and I wanted to follow him into war, because without him, what was left of me?”
The rawness of Steve’s words hits Tony with a quiet force, pulling him in. Tony knows the story, of course, but hearing it from Steve, hearing the pain and the love all wrapped into one, makes it feel new again. It’s not a history Tony has to read about; it’s a history Steve carries with him. Tony just didn’t realize how heavy it was.
“You know, history says that you were best friends, brothers, family… But some interpreted your story as romantic.”
Tony hesitates, watching Steve’s face as if trying to read a map. There’s a careful weight in his tone, a vulnerability in the way he brings it up. He’s worried he’s overstepping — he knows the history of Bucky and Steve has been discussed, debated, twisted into different meanings. He doesn’t want to cross a line. But here they are, sitting in the quiet of their shared space, and Tony can’t help but wonder if this is a conversation worth having.
Steve’s breath catches, just for a beat. It’s barely noticeable, a blink of hesitation, but Tony feels it like a physical slice in the air. Then, with a soft, curious hum, Steve responds.
“Is that so? They must’ve kept it from me on purpose, then.”
Tony lets out a shaky breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Ah, I mean — it’s more of a niche belief. I think it’s more prevalent as part of queer history discourse, or something that truly dedicated fans of yours, of—of Captain America, really, debated over time. Now that I say it out loud, it’s pretty insane how obsessed everyone got with such personal details, how entitled we all acted.”
Tony’s words spill out, almost faster than he can control them, his mind running in circles. He’s embarrassed now, the weight of his own involvement in such discussions suddenly too much to bear. He hadn’t meant to drag Steve into it, hadn’t realized just how invasive the world’s obsession with Steve’s image had been. It had always been a part of Tony’s world, but he never thought about it this way — about how it might feel to be Steve in all this.
“We didn’t know you would ever hear any of it, that’s true, but as someone who’s always been in the public eye, I know it sucks and we had no right. Well, not that I wanted to participate, but I did, and it’s a mix of how I grew up but also my own curiosity regarding, um, homosexual icons of the past—”
“Tony, it’s okay. It doesn’t bother me. If I understand correctly, this inspired people, yeah?”
Tony nods, but he’s still feeling raw, as though Steve’s acceptance is too easy, too generous. “Mhm.”
“Then, there’s no downside to it, as far as I’m concerned.” Steve sighs, a long, deep exhale that almost seems like a release. “It’s important that history is accurate, no matter how dark, how gruesome, how disappointing. But I understand the importance of having heroes, having someone to look up to. And if we lack those heroes, we invent them — whether fabricated on purpose, meticulously, with a plan, or simply created by the people through misplaced hope and overanalyzing details that weren’t even there, to begin with.”
Steve pauses, and Tony watches him, caught by the quiet depth of his words. “Turns out I’m an odd mix of all these scenarios, but as long as my image isn’t used to further agendas I would never stand for, I don’t mind.”
Tony leans back, his heart a little lighter, a little more sure of this unspoken understanding between them. “That’s a pretty amazing view on life, Steve. And not that I thought you were a homophobe, but plenty of men would still be bothered by people assuming they’re something they’re not.”
Steve looks over at him then, eyes soft and thoughtful. “I’d be bothered if that belief was negative, such as that I am a bigot or a denier of human rights. It’s not a negative sentiment that people thought Captain America was a homosexual, although I don’t want it to tarnish the reality of what Peggy Carter meant.” He hesitates, then adds, “But that was then. Steve Rogers continued to live past that and he realized that you can be in your late twenties and still discover things about yourself. Or discover that you don’t even need to know what you’re questioning — answers will still make their way to you. And that’s alright.”
Tony looks at him, his heart heavy in a way he didn’t expect, and the intense eye contact makes his face heat up. There’s so much depth there, so much unspoken understanding between them. And yet, it feels like they’re only just beginning to unravel these layers, this shared history of loss, of confusion, and of finding new ways to exist.
“Awfully insightful for a guy who couldn’t distinguish between facts and anxiety-fueled fallacies just five minutes ago,” Tony teases softly, smiling to lighten the mood.
Steve grins at him, but whatever he’s about to say is interrupted by JARVIS’ low voice disturbing the quiet.
“Mission update from Miss Romanoff: All went well.”
Tony recalls the muted comms, and guilt settles in his chest. But when he looks at Steve, he’s softly smiling.
“She can kick anyone’s ass,” he says, “and will definitely kick ours tomorrow.” Tony can’t help but laugh. “Um, thank you, Tony, for—for calming me down,” Steve adds, and Tony’s heart breaks a little as he sees the embarrassment emanating from him.
“No worries, Cap,” he replies, physically keeping himself from doing something stupid like kissing the guy. “I don’t think any of us is gonna sleep anytime soon, though. Wanna go have some coffee and a snack? We can go to my floor to dodge the others, and we can keep talking about your discoveries…” he trails off, heart pounding in his chest, unable to bring up Steve’s earlier pseudo-confession.
Steve’s eyes soften with relief. “You know what? I’d love nothing more.”