Author's Note: I started this over a year ago. There is no other part to this author's note. I just... started this over a year ago.

The first thing Tony noticed upon waking was a distinct lack of rock music. Instead of AC/DC or Styx or Jimi Hendrix, he was being pulled into consciousness by a painfully bland string of high-pitched, eight-bit noises.

Throwing the covers back, Tony somehow got his feet beneath him and stumbled over to his dresser. He fumbled with the small safe sitting on top and, after a bit of effort and a slew of disgruntled curses, opened it up to reveal a cheap little track phone ringing and vibrating with all its cheap little might.

For a moment, there was hesitation; a nansecond of defiant independence, of a refusal to acknowledge that he had even kept the phone. Maybe if he didn't pick up, Steve would think he threw it away without a second thought. Maybe Steve would realize just how badly he screwed up.

But that was only for a moment.

Tony picked up the phone and pressed it to his ear, speaking in a voice that was as cold and detached and professional as he could possibly make it.

"Rogers."

"Tony?"

Blinking, Tony pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it, a scowl etched deeply into his already tired, worn-out features. He didn't know who was on the other end, but that broken, shaky, lost voice couldn't be Steve. It just couldn't.

…could it?

"Tony, are you there?"

"Yeah, I'm here." Tony started adjusting the fixtures on his dresser, desperate for something to do with his hands. "To what to I owe the pleasure?"

There was a long silence, and Tony was just about to hang up when Steve finally replied.

"I need… help. I, uh… I know it's late, and I know I said… that the phone was… was for if you needed me, but…" There was a heavy sigh and another long pause. "Can you just… meet me somewhere? Can we—I don't know, can we grab a drink or something?"

Tony abandoned the little figurines in favor of drumming his fingers on the wooden surface, worry twisting a hard knot in the pit of his stomach. "What's wrong, Rogers?"

Once again, Tony was met with silence, and waiting wasn't enough to break it that time around.

Heaving a sigh, Tony left the dresser behind and walked over to his closet. "Fine. I assume if you're asking to meet me somewhere, you're close by."

"Yeah, I… I'll send you an address."

Tony frowned once again, the knot grower tighter as he pulled on a pair of jeans and kicked his feet into some beat-up sneakers. "This isn't being recorded. There's no one here, and I'm the only one who knows this phone even exists."

There was more silence, broken up by heavy breathing and the sound of clothes brushing against the mouthpiece.

"Steve?"

More breathing and a thick swallow.

"Earth to Steve. Come in, Steve."

Breathing, rustling, swallowing.

"Steve!"

"S-sorry, sorry. Just, uh, distracted." Steve cleared his throat, and there was more of that rustling sound. "I'll send the address as soon as we hang up. I—thank you, Tony. I just… just need a quick favor."

Tony honestly didn't know how to respond to that, so he offered a dumbfounded nod instead. He then realized Steve could not, in fact, hear him nodding and tacked on a quick, "Yuh-huh."

There was a hum from the other end—like Steve wanted to say thank you again but realized the redundancy at the last second—and then the line went dead.

Tony shook his head and sighed, snapping the phone shut and tossing it onto the bed so he could get ready to venture out into the night.

Well, this isn't exactly what I planned on doing at four o' clock on my only meeting-less morning.

But who was he to complain?

Captain America needed his help.

Steve couldn't have picked a more miserable night to meet, Tony decided as he put his oldest and least expensive car in park. He bade farewell to the warmth of his vehicle and stepped onto the glistening city sidewalk, burying his hands in his pockets to hide them from the damp chill that seemed to press in from every side. Occasionally, a stray raindrop would plop down the back of his shirt, somehow managing to strike the skin between the baseball cap and dark hoodie.

You better have a good reason for dragging me out here, Rogers.

Not that Tony really doubted. Not after that uncharacteristically pitiful phone call.

Tony walked a few more feet and then turned into the diner for which he had been given an address. It was fairly empty, so it took all of ten seconds for Tony to spot his former teammate sitting in a corner booth.

Tony, refusing to show just how unnerved he was by the whole situation, sauntered over and dropped himself onto the seat. "Well, this is a surprise."

Steve startled slightly and turned away from the window, staring like a deer in the headlights. "Uh, T-Tony."

Tony pressed his lips together and nodded. "Yup. That's my name."

Steve didn't respond. In fact, it didn't look like he heard Tony at all.

Tony could have pressed, but instead, he took the opportunity to evaluate his ex-partner.

In a nutshell, Steve looked like death warmed over. In not so much of a nutshell, his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, dark circles shadowing the skin below; his posture was slouched, the muscles in his jaw and neck were tense, and he kept his hands folded in his lap, almost as if he wanted to curl in on himself; there was stubble on his face, but it was uneven and thinned out, like someone had tried to shave but couldn't be bothered to actually look at what they were doing. Most of all, he had the stereotypical thousand-yard stare, his mind clearly wandering in a way Steve Rogers' mind simply… didn't.

"Steve." Tony knocked on the tabletop a few times. "Hey, Steve."

Steve jerked from his thoughts, fear flashing across his features for just a second.

"Tell me what happened. Seriously."

Steve took a shaky breath but didn't say anything, staring at the tabletop between them.

"I'm not kidding, Steve." Tony leaned back a little. "You're scaring me."

Steve shook his head slowly, jaw moving despite the clear lack of cognition. "I… I c…" He swallowed, his chest jumping. "I can't sleep."

No, really? Tony relaxed a bit and cleared his throat. "Why can't you sleep?"

Steve fidgeted where he sat—he fidgeted—and replied. "When I woke up, it was so… so…" Steve tried to grab the word out of the air. "Everything was so different. I could pretend I was someone else."

It took Tony a moment to realize Steve was talking about the ice.

"When I was alone, somewhere simple… somewhere that felt like it could have existed in my time… it was bad. But when I was with the team, it got a little easier. I still had the nightmares, but it was… different. The flashbacks, the cold sweats, it all eased up, and I managed."

Tony remained silent, quickly realizing where the conversation was going to lead.

"But now—" Steve clenched his jaw, eyes misting for a fraction of a second before he blinked them dry. "Every time I look at Bucky, I'm so happy he's here, but then he says something or makes a certain face and… it's just there. It doesn't—doesn't come back to me, it just reminds me that it never left. It's still there. It's—I'm still there, and—"

Tony suppressed his shock when Steve's voice cracked, but he couldn't keep the horror from his face when he heard the desperation and brokenness spill between Steve's lips.

"And I can't get out, Tony." Steve was trying so hard to dry his eyes. "I'm—I'm in the war, and I can't get out." He inhaled sharply. "I can't get out, Tony, I can't… God, please… I can't get out."

"Steve, it—" Tony should have known it wasn't time to talk.

"I'm in the trenches, and the mud is frozen, and there's smoke and gunfire, and I'm crawling over dead soldiers, and I can taste the ash on my tongue, and—and I just want to go home, but I can't. I can't and—and when I finally do come back, it follows me. I hear explosions in construction zones and try to hide when planes fly overhead. I see H.Y.D.R.A. everywhere."

That explained the paranoia over a public address.

"I can't relax, I can't sleep, I'm losing little parts of every day where… where I have no idea where I went or what I did. I get—I get this pain in my chest—this pressure. I—I feel—I don't understand how there's that much weight but my ribs aren't breaking. I can't breathe, sometimes I can't get words out, I—I start to lose feeling in my hands, and—"

Well, Tony knew what that was.

Panic attack. Hooray for Steve.

"Tony, I—I'm not safe. I mean, I mean I know I'm on the run, but I mean me. I'm not safe. I feel like—no, I don't feel like it, I know it. I know I'm losing control. These gaps and flashbacks, this haze; I can't—I can't think straight. I'm afraid of what I might do." A few tears slipped down his cheeks, the rest staying behind to thicken his voice. "And I know, I know—I know I hurt you, Tony, but—" Steve choked on his tears and dropped his head into his hands. "God, I'm so scared, please, help me, I'm so scared."

Silence.

Tony didn't know who Steve was pleading with—him or God or both—but he wasn't going to take any chances.

"Steve, everything is going to be okay."

Steve shook his head, still clutching his skull.

"Yes, it is." Tony left no room for debate in his voice. "I want you to come back to the tower with me. I am going to call…" his therapist, "…a friend. They can help."

Steve slowly lifted his head, eyes redder than ever yet somehow dry.

I guess soldiers are only rationed five tears a year.

"Tony, I know—I know you feel like I betrayed you, and—and maybe I did, but—but you won't—you won't arrest me, will you?"

"You really think I would do that, Rogers?" Tony snapped the words before he could stop himself.

"I don't know, Tony," was Steve's half-angry, half-desperate reply. "I don't know anything anymore."

Tony immediately lowered his gaze. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair."

Steve barely moved, but what little he did looked like a shrug.

"No, not shrug. It was a stupid, thoughtless thing to say, and I'm sorry." Tony paused and watched Steve's chest heave, desperate for oxygen to fill its lungs. "Steve, look at me."

Steve didn't move, and Tony wondered if his consciousness had wandered away again.

"C'mon, buddy, look at me."

Steve lifted dead eyes painted with spiderwebs of red, barely coherent.

"I promise, Steve. I am taking you to the tower to help you. That's all. No schemes, no strings, no ulterior motives. Nothing. Just a friend helping a friend."

Steve scoffed with the tiniest huff of air. "We're friends?"

Tony stopped at that, realizing he didn't have an answer.

Tony started again, realizing he didn't need one.

"I don't know." Tony got to his feet, staring at Steve with a heavy sigh. "But we aren't enemies, and we aren't strangers. We're somethings. We're somethings who help each other."

Steve exhaled sharply through his nose in what could have been a snort, but no humor made it onto his face.

Tony held out his hand and lowered his voice. "Come on, Steve. You gotta trust me."

"How?" Steve asked weakly.

"I don't know." Tony responded with the same level of enthusiasm. "But you have to."

Neither man said a thing, and quiet blanketed the space between them, disturbed only by the clanging of dishes in the kitchen and the occasional footsteps of a waitress.

Steve reached up and grabbed Tony's hand.

Tony grabbed him back and held on tight.

"Everything's going to be okay, Steve."

He squeezed it.

"Promise."

"Just answer me, Ross."

Steve froze in place, heart seizing up when he heard Tony on the phone, a flurry of panicked doubts rushing to the forefront of his mind.

This was a mistake. I have to get out. I have to find Bucky. I have to—

Steve wrapped his arms around himself and took a deep breath, shuffling down the rest of the hall as quietly as possible. He leaned back against the wall and got as close to the opening as he could, rubbing his chest in a fruitless attempt to soothe his pounding heart.

Steve peered out into the kitchen and saw Tony standing at the bar with his back to the hallway, gesticulating with one hand while the other held a phone to his ear.

"It's just a hypothetical, okay? If I knew more, I would tell you, so just give me a freakin' answer, Ross." Tony huffed and walked around his kitchen, opening several cabinets and drawers but not actually accomplishing anything. "Because if it is, we have a lot of different options that we didn't before, okay? People have gotten away with all kinds of stuff on insanity pleas. I'm just saying, we have evidence of the experiments performed on Barnes. Maybe Barnes has PTSD. Rogers was a soldier, too, and seeing his old war buddy could have triggered some PTSD flashbacks. Maybe he wasn't in his right mind—maybe neither of them were."

Steve slid to the floor, too exhausted to stand and confident he was not in any immediate danger. Not that it did anything to ease his anxiety, but he stayed put and listened carefully. It was getting harder to breathe, but he didn't want to leave, and he didn't want Tony to hear him. He tried to stay quiet. He tried to stay calm.

"Well, Wilson and Romanoff would both be familiar with the signs of PTSD, and they're both well-trained. They could have sided with Barnes and Rogers because they hoped they could get them into a stable state of mind and avoid casualties." Tony slammed a glass down on the counter. "I don't know, Ross, maybe they couldn't prove it! I don't know why they didn't come to me. I don't even know if this is a real thing, I'm just investigating a possibility, and before I waste my time, I want to know what this means for charges against them. I mean, Wakanda no longer considers Barnes to be responsible for the attack that killed their king, and Rhodey doesn't want to prosecute anybody for what happened to him—he considers it to be a risk he knowingly accepted when he chose to be War Machine—so just tell me what it could mean, okay?"

Steve pressed his forehead to his knees and exhaled slowly. I forgot what he's like… when he's protecting someone… He curled up a little tighter. I missed you, Tony. I'm sorry I wasn't honest. I hope it means something that I'm being honest now.

"Don't you dare. Don't you dare talk to me about my father. I know exactly what Barnes did, and I already told you—I told you months ago—we are not investigating. It was a car accident. We do not touch the records, we do not touch the history books, we do not speak of it again." Tony threw back a glassful of… some kind of alcohol. "Is that what you want? Okay, fine, I'll say it: I am trying to weasel my way around the rules to help a friend." He slammed his palm down on the table, but his voice had a defeated edge to it when he spoke. "Don't you remember, Ross? Don't you remember what it was like to put your life in someone else's hands? You fought in the same war Rogers did, and you're telling me you wouldn't do whatever you could to help the men who fought beside you?"

There was a long pause, and then Tony let out a massive sigh of relief.

"Yes, yes, thank you. Thank you, Ross, seriously. That's all I'm asking for. Just—just find out what you can do for me on this." Pause. "No, no, I don't expect promises. I understand. Thank you. Thank you, seriously. I hope you realize how infrequently I say thank you, and I just said it, like, seven times." He let out another breath. "Thank you. Yeah. Yeah, I'll be in touch. Yup. Thanks. Bye."

Tony hung up his phone and practically collapsed against the bar, letting out a heavy sigh. He stayed there for about ten seconds, lifted his torso enough to refill his glass and throw it back, and then dropped onto the countertop again.

He's tired, too. Steve carefully stood up and started to shuffle closer, ashamed of the way he couldn't quite get his feet off the ground. I wonder how long he was on the phone.

Tony straightened up, a smile immediately pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Hey, how are you feeling?"

Steve shrugged his shoulders. "Your friend Mark left a little bit ago. Said he'll be back tomorrow. I, uh… I'm supposed to see him once a day."

Tony nodded his head understandingly. "Yeah, that's for the best." He drummed his fingers for a few seconds and then gestured to the barstools across from him. "Did, uh, did he talk to you about the best way to treat PTSD?"

Steve took a deep breath and let it out, approaching the bar and feeling a sick twist in his gut. "Um, yeah." His chest tightened at the mere thought, and he wondered how it was possible the walls could feel like they were closing in when the room was so big.

"Sucks, doesn't it?"

Steve gave a few nods. "I, uh… I don't know if I'll be able to… I don't know."

Long-Term Exposure Therapy was what Mark called it. Long-Term Excruciating Torture was Steve's preferred name.

Tony folded his arms and put them on top of the bar. "You will. Maybe not right away, but you will. Mark is good at what he does."

Steve nodded a few times and hesitantly breached a topic that had been on his mind since the diner—a question he wasn't sure he was still had a right to ask. "How do you… know all this?" And why do you have a therapist friend who will come to your house at five in the morning?

Tony froze on the spot. "Crap. I forgot to be clueless."

Steve lowered his head to the granite countertop and tried to decide whether or not he liked the cool, smooth surface on his cheek. "Did it get this bad for you?"

Tony was quiet for a moment, and if Steve had had the energy, he would have lifted his head to look. Seconds ticked by, and it sounded like Tony got another drink.

"Well, I tried to kill Pepper in my sleep once, so…"

Internally, Steve's eyes widened, but his brain didn't have enough control over his body to make his face do anything. "Nightmares?"

"Yup." Tony took a drink. "Among other things."

Steve almost asked what the other things were, but he figured Tony probably didn't want to share. Besides, Steve didn't have the mental capacity for much more conversation.

"What about?"

"Wormhole."

Tony didn't say anything else, and Steve didn't press.

Steve blamed himself for not noticing, especially because he had always considered himself to be a relatively good judge of character. But he always got it wrong when it came to Tony, and when Tony had jolted back to life with a witty, 'please tell me nobody kissed me,' Steve had fallen for the nonchalance just like the rest of the team.

Even now… I know how stressed he is… how upset and… but he doesn't show it. It's all bravado and grandiosity and narcissism. Tch. Tony wasn't a narcissist. It had taken Steve a little while to put that together, but he had figured it out by the time Sokovia hit the ground again.

"Did Mark say you're allowed to have some sleeping pills? Because you can use mine until we get a psychiatrist to prescribe you some."

Steve vaguely nodded his head. "Don't think I'll need them tonight. I can hardly keep my eyes open." He sighed. "I've been so tired lately…"

"Yeah, well, PTSD and depression tend to go hand-in-hand, and therapy will knock you flat on your butt pretty fast for either."

Steve blinked, struggling to keep his eyes open. "I'm not sad… or empty, I'm… just tired. I'm so tired."

Tony snorted. "Oh, Stevie Boy, you have so much to learn."

Steve didn't say anything, and silence fell between them again. It lasted a little longer that time around, and then Steve managed a whisper.

"Are you mad at me?"

Tony let out a heavy sigh. "You gotta give me more to go on than that."

Steve shrugged his shoulders. "You're… really sticking your neck out for me. But… I could tell at the diner… there's still a lot we didn't…" Resolve? But they had resolved it, with fists, and they had both made their stances very clear.

Or Steve thought they had.

He really didn't know anything anymore.

"I don't understand."

Tony snorted. "If you're asking me whether or not I forgive you, then no. I'm still mad—furious, really—about everything. But you're still my something, and at the end of the day, I want you safe and healthy. You are neither right now. So… being mad doesn't really matter. Once we accomplish the two primary goals, then we can throw some punches again."

Steve managed a small smile at that, but he couldn't lift his head. "Thanks, Tony." He heaved a sigh, massaging his sternum in an attempt to relieve the ever-present pain. "For meeting me… not arresting me… everything…" He swallowed. "When I gave you the phone, I… didn't think I would pull you into… my problems… I just wanted to be there if you ran into trouble, but…"

"It didn't occur to you that you might need help?"

Steve jerked his shoulders in a quick shrug. "It did. I… thought I would be able to handle it."

"Something tells me you've been thinking that way since you got serumed up." Tony put his glass in the sink, and the clinking of a bottle said the alcohol was put away. "I've been there."

Steve inhaled slowly. "I… never wanted to be…" He trailed off, knowing exactly what word he wanted to use but too embarrassed and raw to use it.

"You never wanted to be a burden? Yeah, been there too. I guess we both had to learn the hard way that it's unavoidable."

Tony walked around for a few seconds, and then Steve felt a hand on his back.

"Come on, let's get you to bed."

Steve struggled to get to his feet, overwhelmed by the thought of walking all the way to a bedroom. "I… couch?"

Tony didn't say anything for a second, but he seemed understanding when he replied. "Sure."

Steve stood up with Tony's help and somehow made it to the sofa, toppling onto the furniture unceremoniously as the last dregs of energy trickled from his body. How can I be this tired? How is it… physically possible to be this dead on your feet?

Steve felt a soft blanket settle over him, and the couch sank by his feet. There was a click, and then soft noise from the television, intermittently changing until Tony found a channel he liked.

Steve couldn't get his eyes open, but he moved his foot enough to nudge Tony. "Staying?"

"Yup. I won't go anywhere. Except, you know, probably the bathroom a couple times."

Steve smiled inwardly—his face once again failed to comply—and he let himself fall headlong into sleep. He was afraid of the nightmares, and he didn't know what he would do if he woke up in the middle of one, but no matter what happened, whether or not he thought he needed Tony…

…Tony would be right there, less than a phone call away.