Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel or the Avengers

Tony feels like absolute shit.

Her back aches, her shoulders ache, in fact, her whole body aches, and there's those stupid sharp muscle cramps that feel like long bodkins poking up through the core of her body. And to make things even better, she's leaking, stupid bloodstains all over her jeans and warm stickiness down her leg and it's just too much, suddenly, just – just everything.

She stares down at the surface of the bench, trying to bring it back into focus, hands gripping too tightly to the edge. Her eyes are blurry and sore, and there's a dull thudding in her ears and a big stinging lump in her throat that she can't swallow down.

There's a pile of tiny nuts and bolts in front of her, and she shoves them roughly out of the way, but a couple of them fall off the surface and she's too slow and stiff to catch them. They fall to the ground with a little peltering noise, and roll away in different directions as she watches.

And then somehow she's got her face down on the workbench, arms curled around her head, and big shuddering sobs keep rising up in her chest, hating herself for crying like this, and it's – it's just, she's so bloody lonely, and sometimes it feels like she's trying so hard and yet – and Steve.

Because Steve – it doesn't matter what Tony does, Steve still won't, still won't ever. Steve'll still just think she's selfish and too loud and a show-off, and it doesn't matter, Tony doesn't care, she doesn't care what stupid bloody Steve thinks, with her big soft blue eyes and her mouth and her face, Tony doesn't care, she really, really doesn't.

She's just – just so lonely, and cold, even though the temperature down here should be just right, why is she cold, and now she has blood going everywhere and she needs to clean herself up and she just can't, she can't. And JARVIS is saying something that Tony can't hear, she can't bear listening to JARVIS right now, and she shudders and sniffles again and presses her face pathetically into her arms.

'Tony? Tony, hey, you okay?'

Oh, God. It's Steve, Steve down in her workshop where Steve definitely shouldn't be, why has JARVIS let her in, and, shit, this is the most embarrassing moment of Tony's life, this is like seriously, A-level embarrassing, and she ought to just put her head up and smile and say she's fine, nothing to worry about, just resting. Except when she puts her head up and tries to grin like usual, it goes all wobbly, and she knows there's stupid tear-tracks down her cheeks, making dirty marks because she's covered in grease. And she opens her mouth to try and say something normal, and nothing will come out except that she makes this awful, terrible little sniffling noise.

In front of Steve. Oh God, oh God, this is the worst thing that's ever happened to her, Steve right there with her – her stupid Steve-face, and Tony's losing it in front of her, and now Steve's going to think she's unstable and shouldn't be on the team –

And now Steve's lips are moving, and she's saying something that Tony can't hear over the panicked white noise her brain's making. What, what is Steve saying? Tony's hands are clenching and unclenching at her sides and she can't make them go still, she can't, her hands aren't obeying her and she's – she's all shaky, why, why?

But then there are hands on Tony's shoulders, warm and firm, gripping them and shaking gently. Steve. Steve's still there. Steve's hands are holding onto her, anchoring, and Steve's saying something, and this time Tony can make sense of it.

'Hey, hey, Tony. It's okay, look at me, Tony. Everything's okay. Breathe, okay? Just breathe.'

Steve's voice is quiet, but with that Captain America-ness in it, sort of commanding and reassuring at the same time; and Tony finds that she can breathe a little bit easier when Steve's standing there telling her to do it. Tony can just about – she can find her words now, fumbling for them, and she says, 'M'fine, okay, it's nothing, I'll – I'll be upstairs just now, lunch, yeah, that's good, just coming now, meet you up there.'

'Tony, it's the evening,' Steve says, rather gently, and now her hand is rubbing little circles into Tony's shoulder, and it feels so good, so good, and Tony just closes her eyes for a moment and leans into the touch, because she can't help it.

'Just need to – to,' she whispers, and shifts awkwardly, and this is stupid, it shouldn't be embarrassing, and yet – and yet. It's Steve, and Steve is the sort of person who's always clean and fresh and wholesome and has gentle hands and smells nice, like soap and cinnamon cookies. And Tony is filthy and covered in grease and grime and blood, and so it is sort of embarrassing. Like sort of very, painfully, horribly embarrassing.

'Oh,' says Steve, and then, 'Oh. I see,' and hey, maybe Tony doesn't have to spell it out after all, so she just sits there for a moment with her eyes squeezed shut, because she's tired and embarrassed and yeah, bleeding from her insides, so she ought to be allowed a moment, really.

Steve's hand rubs once more on her shoulder. 'Just wait here, hey? Be back in a minute,' she murmurs, and her hand runs gently through Tony's short dark hair as she moves away. It sends little tingles down Tony's back.

In a minute Steve's back in the workshop, good as her word, and Tony risks a glance up at her through her eyelashes. Steve's got a small pile of clothes and things under her arm; and she slips her free arm around Tony. 'Come on,' she says, 'up with you. Brought you some things to change into, figured it'd be easier if you didn't have to fetch them yourself. You look kinda awful, don't want you flaking out.'

Her voice is wonderfully even and matter-of-fact, and her arm is strong and supporting and nice. They fit together, Tony nested into the comforting curve of Steve's body, and Tony forgets about the fact that she's dirty and horrible, and just leans, leans on Steve and smells her nice smell. Steve is great, Steve is really great, and hey, wouldn't it be nice to just curl up into Steve and soak in it, soak in how warm and nice and soft and strong Steve is.

And then she thinks, shit, SHIT, because, God, she is really badly gone on Steve, and in a minute she'll remember all the reasons why that is a Very Bad Thing, but for now everything's fuzzy and soft-focused and she can't think about it straight.

Steve takes her to the bathroom and sets the pile down on the vanity, letting go of Tony with a warm caressing slide of her palm on Tony's shoulder, just looking at Tony with those eyes, all soft and concerned and caring. It feels so good, too good, because that way leads to things that hurt, but Tony's head is too fuzzy to care and she just looks wistfully up at Steve's face and basks in it.

'Have a shower,' Steve says. 'I'll wait for you, hey? Get you downstairs, have something to eat. I've made cookies, the cinnamon ones you like. Then you can go to bed.'

And it should be irritating, it should be rubbing Tony right up the wrong way, all the fussing and bossing, except that it isn't, because it's so nice to have someone looking after her, just this once. And Steve smiles at her, and reaches out to brush her thumb over the dried tear tracks on Tony's cheekbone, very softly, before she leaves Tony in the bathroom.

Tony drags herself out of the shower at last. When she investigates the pile of things Steve's left, she finds that it's Steve's own clothes, freshly laundered and smelling clean and soapy: soft worn jeans and a blue shirt that swamps Tony's smaller frame. There's a little convenience bag, too, all discreet and new and packaged up and with everything she needs in it, and Tony feels her throat nonsensically closing up hot and tight, like she might cry again, because, just, how is Steve even a real person?

She limps out, and then Steve's there again, smiling a little at the too-big clothes. And Steve just makes everything easy; she just says 'Come on,' and drags Tony out to the kitchen and pushes her gently into a seat while she makes her a big mug of chocolate with marshmallows. There's still the little voice in Tony's head saying she should protest about it, about all the fussing, should get herself together and look after herself. But she's just so – so tired, and the voice is just a thread, she can ignore it, and she finds her eyes drifting closed as she rests her head in her hands, propped on the table.

Clint wanders in and tries to steal the crispy cookies that Steve's busy piling onto a plate; Tony can't be bothered to open her eyes, but she hears his aggrieved 'Ow!' as Steve silently and efficiently fends him off. Then Steve's coaxing Tony up again, herding her out to the lounge, and then Tony's somehow curled up on the sofa with a soft blanket cuddled around her, the chocolate and cookies in easy reaching distance, and Steve sitting right there smiling at her.

Steve says, 'Can I,' and reaches out to curl her arm around Tony, tugging her in to fit in the crook of Steve's shoulder. Tony snuggles slightly, and she sort of feels like a kitten or something, with Steve being all touchy-feely like this, but she's too warm and comfortable to complain.

She sips her chocolate, her eyes heavy, and after a bit Steve starts talking in a soft voice, telling her a story about cookies and growing up and something about a spanner that Tony doesn't quite catch. Tony's drifting, drifting, Steve's voice washing over her in quiet comforting waves, and she drifts all the way into soft sleep with the sensation of Steve's fingers stroking little circles into the thin skin on the underside of her wrist.

Tony wakes, or half-wakes at least, to strong arms shifting her, hooking carefully under her knees and scooping her up to carry her against the soft pillow of someone's chest. Steve – Steve's chest, Tony thinks muzzily, and mumbles, 'Wha – wha's happ'n?'

'Shh-sh,' Steve says, 'sleep, Tony. It's okay, I got you.'

Steve's moving – Steve's carrying her – and Tony has a vague sense that she should protest, but then she drifts off again, and next thing is that Steve's got her in bed, wrapped up in something warm and soft – Steve's weight is making the mattress dip as she sits on the side – gentle fingers are stroking Tony's hair.

She turns into the touch, nestling her cheek against Steve's hand, and slurs out, 'S'nice,' because it is, it is nice, nice, nice, Steve is the nicest, why can't she have Steve always, and so she says, 'Wann – wanna keep you. Steve Steve Steve. Nicest.'

There's a quiet chuckle, the brush of a thumb over Tony's cheekbone. 'Sleep well,' she hears, and then something that could almost be, 'sweetheart,' (but of course it can't, that bit must be dreaming); and then she's asleep.

So, I wanted Small!Tony and Fem!Tony and f/f, so I wrote this. Chapter 2 will be coming, hopefully sooner rather than later - in which there will be more caring Steve and small Tony, and soft kisses. I promise soft kisses.