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It happened because Stephen was being careless.
It was new, this thing between Tony and him. New enough that Tony hadn’t exactly known the full scope of Stephen’s… for lack of eloquent wording, problems. And the nature of them. He was still riding the euphoria of their new… thing the first few weeks they officialised it between them, and everything was so good he had even forgotten once or twice to take his meds, because he hadn’t felt the need. Not with Tony around. So good, in fact, that every night it had been so easy to let his guard down by increments until he no longer felt the need to be careful. Whether that meant he let the exhaustion bleed out of him the moment he hit the mattress or they fucked themselves into complete bliss until he passed out right then and there, right where he was on the bed, instead of his usual careful arrangement of pillows to prop him up.
He didn’t exactly know what it was about that—the added level the pillows provided for his head, for some reason, drove most of the nightmares away. They came rarely whenever he slept propped up—most of the time lying flat was when they’d come for him, and he wondered about that for a long time.
When he mustered the courage to ask about it to his therapist, one session, she had just said it had to do with your body feeling vulnerable. He supposed that made sense, how your body would be more open to threats when lying prone or supine and unsuspecting. It was unfair, that everyone else could sleep however way they wanted, and people like him had to shield themselves with thick blankets and a bank of pillows, but it made sense.
He had let himself spend every night of that first few weeks—or as many nights as their lives allowed, as the way the lives they led only ever allowed so much—in bed with Tony, had let himself bask in the joy of being in somebody’s arms, whom he loved and loved him back. It was still a foreign notion to him, the idea that he could have this, but once he knew that this was his, that this was something that was meant for him—it was all too easy to hold on. It was all he ever wanted, all he could do to swear to not ever let go. It was, of course, quite a lapse in judgement on his part. He had thought he’d gotten over that kind of naiveté, after Christine, but he had been wrong. He had been very wrong.
That was the thing about letting yourself be happy; life, and reality, had always punished him for wanting that. For having it, now. What sort of right, what kind of audacity—who the hell did he think he was to even think he deserved that? In hindsight, he really should’ve seen it coming.
So yes, when the nightmare came, it was because Stephen had been careless. It had been a while since something like that happened, too—it was like his mind had been building up to this moment, had been lying in wait like a predator for the perfect opportunity to strike him down when he was at his most vulnerable. It sank his claws in him, vicious and unrelenting, in vengeance for him ever daring to be happy, and the visions he was subjected to was worse than the last. Worse than his usual, even.
He woke up with Tony’s head hovering over his own, frantic. When it blurred into focus he realised it was wrought with worry—and something like fear. There were hands pinning him down, and he struggled against them, and Tony’s muttering a litany of words that made no sense to him; things like, “Hey, hey hey hey baby wake up,” and “Stephen, Stephen, honey, I’m right here, it’s me, it’s me, come on, baby.” Then he registers there’s some horrible sound. This loud, raw, roaring thing in his ears, something harsh and hoarse, and he realised too late that he was screaming. He was screaming loudly, the sound was coming from him, wrenched from deep in his chest, and his throat was aching with it.
He knew by now what was surely to come after this, and no, no no no, this couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t let Tony see this. He needed to get away, and fast. Tony still had him pinned on the mattress, so Stephen shoved him off. Tony landed maybe off the bed, and perhaps it was too brutal a shove, but Stephen could hardly think straight—he needed to get his pills. They were in the bathroom, he needed to get to the bathroom.
He stumbled, half-tripped over somebody’s trousers on the way to his bathroom, threw himself in and yanked open the mirror cabinet to take his bottle of pills. His hands, his damned damned hands—they were trembling so bad, it was hard to get any sort of grip, and soon the trembling caught up with the rest of his body, and he barely managed to pop open the bottle before it slipped from his fingers and stumbled onto the sink. It rolled, fell, the pills scattering all over the floor, all because of his damned, useless fucking hands, and he shook and shook and didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know what he could do.
He could ride it out. It had been a while since he’d had to do it, but he could. He knew he could. But this was—it had been so long since it had been this bad, bad enough that his legs were giving out, and he found himself on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor, shaking beyond belief.
He realised too late that there was a hand on his shoulder, and it was grounding but it was unwelcome, so he shoved it away. It relented, but it came back to force a pill between his lips. His ears were gaining function again so he heard Tony saying, “Swallow, baby, swallow,” and Stephen didn’t think he could, but Tony managed to push the pill between his chattering teeth and nudge a glass of water for him to drink—wherever that had come from—and he obeyed because it was all he could do.
He knew he was thrashing, knew he was being uncooperative. “Get away,” he muttered, “Get away get away get away.”
“Not happening, baby,” Tony was saying, “You gotta breathe, okay? Come on. Breathe with me. I’m gonna hold you, okay?” and he didn’t know, didn’t know if that was okay, but eventually he was nodding mindlessly, and Tony was pulling him into his strong arms. Anchored him there. He was laying Stephen’s head on his shoulder, and he was guiding him to breathe, but Stephen was shaking so badly, and his lungs burned because the air wouldn’t enter. He felt like he would die, like this. How was he meant to survive this? He was going to die. Was he going to die?
“Shh, shh, breathe with me, baby. Come on, breathe. In—and out, in—out, come on.”
Stephen tried to follow the grounding sound of Tony’s voice, his soothing stream of instructions, the heartbeat he feels beating steadily against his own frantic, hammering one. When the meds finally took effect, that helped. He didn’t know how long he sat there, cradled in Tony’s arms, shaking and shaking, and it may have been hours until the trembling began to ease. It may also have been mere minutes. Soon enough, his limbs began to weigh down, getting heavier, and his body came back to itself. The trembling of his hands eased into its normal tremor, and the rest of his body slumped in exhaustion. It wasn’t the bad kind of exhaustion, either, almost felt golden in its relief, and that must be the work of the meds. Better than any kind of magic, Stephen would know.
Slowly he became aware of his surroundings. They were on the cold bathroom floor, leaning against the equally cold tiles of the wall. Tony’s hand was rubbing soothingly down his back, and the shoulder under his cheek was wet with, he realised in horrification, tears. Tony was making shushing noises at him, and that was—the word was mortification, swallowing him whole. The realisation of what had just happened was mortifying. The humiliation was exquisite.
“I’m—” and there came out a horrifying sob, “—sorry, I’m sorry, I—”
“Shh, no such thing. Don’t you dare apologise. Come on, baby, just breathe.”
The next sob that came was small and weak. That was somehow worse. He clenched his eyes shut, swallowing the shame, then opened them and managed to look up at Tony’s face, and then felt the colour drain from his face at the dark bruise on his cheekbone.
“You’re—”
“It was my fault,” Tony whispers, “my fault, baby. Not yours. I didn’t realise what was happening and I shouldn’t have held you down like that. It wasn’t your fault. Don’t worry about it, okay? Everything’s alright.”
Stephen shook his head, sniffling. “‘M sorry,” and he sounded small, even to his ears. “‘M so—sorry.”
“Shh, shh.” Tony’s hand was stroking his hair now, and Stephen buried his face in the crook of Tony’s neck, trying to quieten his sobs. The shame of it all was still eating at him, but it was a background noise now to Tony’s quiet words of reassurance.
At some point Tony moved them back into bed. He didn’t know how or when that happened—that tended to happen, after something like this. Or, well, it tended to happen without anything setting it off, even. He’d just lose chunks of time. Sometimes entire chunks of the day.
He was still more than a little shaky, a little rubbed raw. The remnants of it were still whizzing through his bones. He’ll have to sleep it off. Tony had the right idea. Suddenly he finds himself folded under the covers, and Tony was wrapped behind him. Tony was pulling him close, his chest flush against Stephen’s back.
For a moment, Stephen lay there, not knowing what to say. He closed his eyes, let the shame of everything crash through him, the white-hot knife of humiliation. He let himself feel every inch of that knife slowly enter him, let it twist inside.
When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper, because he feared any louder and his voice might crack. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
He felt a whisper of a kiss brushed against the back of his head. “It wasn’t too difficult to figure out.”
“You didn’t ask me what they were for. The pills.”
“You seriously don’t think I know what the benzos are for?”
Stephen let that sink in for a moment. He thought about the way Tony handled the situation, earlier, the soft, calm way he spoke, like they were just having a conversation. Like it was a completely normal thing. The way he knew what he was doing, the right way to do it, like he knew what needed to be done. Stephen turned around to face Tony, the beautiful face he ruined, choking momentarily at the guilt. Tony stroked his cheek gently.
You seriously don’t think I know what the benzos are for?
He thought about it. He supposed that made sense. Not a hard get, at all, indeed.
“You didn’t tell me either,” Stephen eventually pointed out.
“Yeah, well.” Tony shrugged, and didn’t elaborate further. Stephen understood.
After a while, Stephen asked a hesitant, “Was it Afghanistan?”
Tony breathed out a quiet, “Yeah. There’s that. And then some.” He shrugged again, that careless, casual motion that he did when he tried to downplay things. “It’s funny, actually. It wasn’t even the whole kidnapping or having a hole in my chest that hit me hard. I guess watching someone die does that to you.”
Stephen hummed in understanding. Tony had told him a little about Afghanistan, back before they'd even gotten together, when they were still easing into uneasy camraderie—it wasn’t the whole of it, Stephen’s sure, but Tony’s mentioned the broad outlines, at least. His family name written across a missile, waking up with a magnet in his chest, Ho Yinsen’s death. Funny, how someone’s death was not something that happened to them, but was something that affected everyone else in their lives.
Death is what gives life meaning, The Ancient One had told him, and at the time Stephen had just thought, bullshit. Death was an unreasonable, unjust thing. It was a selfish thing. The Ancient One had thought he wanted to control death because of his arrogance, his need for control, but in truth, it was his fear. It was the fear of a young boy who had watched his little sister’s last breath bubble up the surface of a lake, heard the earth-shattering crack of ice, who stood frozen and unable to do a thing. It was the same fear that made him swear the hippocratic oath, made him hesitate before taking risky surgeries, made him fear the sight of blood on his hands. Death is what gives life meaning, she told him, and Stephen had thought, absolute fucking bullshit.
“Survivor’s guilt,” Stephen provided.
“You don’t get to backseat therapy me when you’re equally as fucked up about that shit, you hypocrite.”
Stephen laughed. He laughed far too loud, for far too long, and Tony looked halfway amused and mostly concerned. Damn Tony, this brilliant, ridiculous man, and his verbal restraint equivalent to that of a howling labrador. He shuffled closer to press onto Tony’s side, and Tony’s strong arms automatically wrapped around him. Tony shifted for a moment to make sure Stephen’s head was safely propped up—and oh, what had he done to deserve this man? Did he, even?—then again to move them into a more comfortable position.
“Go back to sleep, mkay?” Tony kisses his forehead gently, strokes his back. “I’m right here. I’ll be just right here.”
Stephen nods, eyes already drooping.