This story is a slash polyamory between Bucky/Tony/Steve, but nothing more than a small kiss occurs. This is about showing emotion—not other things. Get your minds out of the gutter. Anyway, if you don't like it, feel free to click out of this.

Warnings: Reference to past suicide attempt, references to self-harm, references to rape (fairly vague), references to child abuse, discussions of medications and compliance, nightmares, anxiety, and mental illness.

Summary: This is the short story about mental illness, forgiveness, and finding a way to start again. Tony has bipolar and PTSD, and he's struggling under weight of the changes around him and the illness within him. Med compliance isn't easy. It's amazing the weight pills can hold. With the team Accords amended and the team returning, Tony needs to learn to trust and accept that it's okay for people to care.

Somewhere between the old scars of love and thorns of anger lies desperate hope, all you need to do is grab onto it.

Chapter One

He who rides a tiger is afraid to dismount—Chinese Proverb

xXx

They were coming back.

Tony paced the workshop of the compound, fingers knotted in his hair, trying to fight the feeling of overwhelming panic—his mind racing. This was supposed to be a good thing. It was closure—or some crap like that—at least according to his therapist. Maybe he shouldn't have fired her. He could use a little advice about now.

Everything was finally fitting into place. He'd spent the better part of the last year working with Rhodey and Pepper on repairing the damage done through their so-called civil war. Pepper had run a stellar PR campaign while Rhodey stood by him for support. Vision didn't stick around, taking off after Wanda. They were somewhere in Europe the last he heard. It was fine though because he and Rhodey handled it.

Together they'd fought the UN Council to amend the Accords, fought to pardon his ex-teammates, Tony even fought at the hearing to clear Bucky's name. To be honest, he wasn't sure why he did all he did. It was going above and beyond. He wondered if it was his way of forgiving—showing the world he held no hard feelings.

But now reality was sinking in. They were coming back.

Helping them had been one thing, but somewhere in his plans he'd failed to foresee the eventual outcome. If all went to plan, which it had, they were going to need a home, somewhere that the council deemed appropriate. It seemed logical to all those involved that they'd come back to the compound, and Tony had even agreed despite the way the idea sent a shiver of down his spine.

They were coming back. The words taunted him.

His heart hammered in his chest as he tried to breathe through the reality of the situation. He growled as he swept his arm across his workstation in frustration, sending bits and pieces of metal and tools across the room. He stumbled back into the counter and then slid down to the floor, wrapping his arms around himself. What had he been thinking when he agreed to let them come back?

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to drown out the noise in his head, his mind flashing memories of things he wished he could forget. He twisted his fingers in his hair, pulling at it painfully. He closed his eyes and rested his head back, mind racing. He didn't know how long he sat there chasing his thoughts.

"Boss, you have an incoming call from Ms. Potts. Would you like me to put her through?"

Tony dragged a hand over his face. He blinked in the too bright light of the workshop. His tailbone aching from sitting on the hard tile too long. "Pepper?"

"Yes, Boss," his AI spoke. "She is inquiring about your wellbeing."

Tony sighed, waving a hand. "Yeah, patch her through."

He climbed to his feet, knees popping as he pushed himself up. The room spun a little as he adjusted to the new position. Like it could read his mind, Dum-E whirled and grabbed a granola bar, wheeling over to him. He rolled his eyes but took the offering, giving the bot a pat on the head. It didn't say much for his ability to manage self-care when he had to rely on a robot to feed him. He knew hadn't been eating much lately and apparently it showed.

"Tony," Pepper said. "It's been days. You were supposed to call and check in with me. You do know the pharmacy calls me, right? You're due for a refill for two of your meds. Wanna tell me what's going on?"

"Not really," Tony sighed. It wasn't that he had meant to stop, but it had just become overwhelming somehow. Once he'd missed a few, it became easier to miss more, and then before he knew it, he was free of the things entirely. "I'll send happy to pick them up. It's fine. I'll get back on track. Promise, Pep."

"You can't do this, Tony." She sighed. "You know what happens when you go off them."

He shrugged, glad that Pepper couldn't see him doing it. He hated that he needed medication. He hated how it numbed him, muted his mind. He liked the chaos more than the apathy that they provided. He knew it was a gamble to go off. You never knew how high you'd go or how hard you'd fall, but at least for a little while, you felt alive. It was a rush he didn't think anyone else could understand. Medication took part of who he was away or at least that's how it felt. The doctor was always telling him he just needed to find the right combination, get stable, and then he'd feel better—normal even—but who said he wanted that?

"You don't get it. You don't understand."

"Tony," she said softly. "I know you don't like them, but you need them."

"I know. I get it. I said I would take them," he said sharply, regretting the harsh tone immediately. "Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to snap. I just haven't been getting much sleep. It's not your fault."

"It's okay. Just please don't forget Dr. Cho is coming to give you your injection tomorrow. I know you hate it, but it's at least one medication I know you're getting."

Tony knew all too well he was due for his injection—an atypical antipsychotic. It had been explained to him in detail. He needed it every thirty days. It was supposed to balance his moods, help quiet his mind. It did help, but it also gave him a sore lump on his ass cheek for a week and sucked the life out of him for days after. Part of him wanted to just go grab one of his suits and disappear—say screw it all—but he couldn't. The team was coming home, and he needed to be there—he needed to show them he wasn't afraid.

"Tony?" Pepper prompted. "You still there?"

"Yeah, Pep," Tony said. "Just got a lot on my mind. I can't believe they're coming back, you know? It's finally over."

"You did a good job," she said. "But are you sure you're up for seeing them? I can make other arrangements. If the council likes it or not, this is still your home and you don't need to be uncomfortable in it."

"It's fine. Don't worry about it." He tried to believe his own words, but he knew deep down he wasn't ready. He'd tried to forgive them all, wanting closure, but he wasn't sure how successful he'd been. Before firing his last therapist, they'd spent time working through the benefits of accepting your own actions and forgiving others for theirs. Somedays it felt like he had managed to let the past go, but others, he could still feel the shield cutting into his chest. No one ever said forgiveness was easy.

Pepper sighed. "I know you're not fine, but I also know I can't change your mind when you dig your heels in, so please, for me, take your meds and get some rest, okay?"

"I'll try."

"Thank you. Now go lay down. You know how important sleep is for you."

Tony found himself yawning at that. "Alright, maybe I'll take a nap. Talk to you later, Pep."

"Night, hun."

He hated admitting that Pepper was right, but he hadn't been sleeping—not like he should. When he slept, the nightmares would start, and their grip was unbreakable. On the worst nights, he'd find himself frozen in the bed while his mind replayed his worst moments of his life unable to pull himself free. From Afghanistan to Siberia, his mind would never relent. It was easier to stay awake. It was easier than remembering the past he wanted to forget.

Taking his medications was another story. Logically, he knew he should take them, but doing so sometimes seemed harder than building the Iron Man armor back in the cave. The pills would just sit in his palm as he held them, feeling like they weighed a hundred pounds. There were ones to help him sleep, ones for his anxiety, mood stabilizers, and of course, he couldn't forget the shot that left him sore for days. It was ten levels of awful, and at times, he just didn't want to deal. He'd just quit, cold turkey, migraine inducing withdrawals and all, sending himself spiraling into mania or depression.

The only people who knew the extent of his issues were Happy, Pepper, Rhodey and Dr. Cho. He'd managed to keep anyone else from knowing. Thankfully most people just chalked it up to his eccentric personality as they called it, and he wasn't going to correct them. It was easier that way.

Sighing, he left his workshop and headed back to his room. He wandered over to his dresser and opened it, cringing at the sight. It was a mix of various prescription bottles—some old and long expired, some with a few left, some were nearly full because he hadn't been taking them, and in the corner of the drawer was a daily pill sorter that sat empty. It had been a present from Pepper to help him stay organized and keep him on track, but he hated taking the time to fill it, so it was rarely used.

He was already feeling overwhelmed. He wanted to just shut the drawer and go back to his workshop, but he'd promised Pepper he'd try, so there he was. He dug around in the drawer looking for the bottle of Depakote—one of the more obnoxious pills just because of its size. They were supposed to keep his mood levels and mania controlled, but they made him feel numb and screwed with his appetite. He hated them, but he knew that he was walking a fine line. He knew somewhere inside him that Pepper was right. He was already beginning to feel his mood changing. He was starting to crash and burn.

He found the offending pills and swallowed them dry, then dug around for his sleeping pills. He had plenty of them left since he hadn't been taking them. He took two despite only being prescribed one. He didn't care. He was just hoping it would knock him out enough he didn't dream. He really needed some sleep. His mind had been chaotic for weeks and now he was feeling burnt out—like he wanted to build a blanket fort and not come out. The world felt too big and a bit too much to face. The thought of the teams impending arrival was creeping back into his mind, but he did his best to push it down. He didn't want to think about it, not yet.

He toed off his shoes and walked over to the bed, not bothering to strip.

"Friday, have Happy grab my scripts tomorrow," he said. "And make sure I'm up in time for the good Dr. Cho. Don't want to miss out on my shot."

"I'll make sure you're awake with enough time to shower, Boss."

"Thanks, girl," he said, flopping down on the bed. "Night, night."

"Sweet dreams, sir," his AI replied.

His dreams weren't sweet though. Despite his hope for a dreamless sleep, he had nightmares. Scene after scene played out in front of him in all too much detail. He was back in Afghanistan, being waterboarded, beaten, and whipped. It was so sharp and real, and he couldn't escape. He was trapped. His heart began to pound in his chest, shirt soaked with sweat. He knew this nightmare all too well—where it was heading. He tried to wake up. He knew what was about to happen. He cried out into the darkness of his room as he fought off the attackers that were long since gone, twisting and tangling in the sheets.

He awoke with a start, feeling nauseous. His hand went to his shoulder, covering the small scar that lay there. It had felt so real. He cursed himself for not being able to put it behind him. It had been years, and yet there he was, still letting it get to him. It seemed some demons you couldn't outrun.

Not wanting to risk another nightmare, he figured he might as well get up and start the day. It was still dark, but technically morning, just early morning. He got in the shower feeling hungover from the sleeping pills. He was quick, not a big fan of water after the nightmares he'd had. He got dressed in sweats and an oversized MIT hoodie and glanced at the dresser where his pills were. He was supposed to take the Depakote twice a day. Granted, this was a little early to take them, but better now than not at all, so sighing, he walked over and dug around for the bottle. He found it and took two out, tossing them in his mouth and swallowing them down.

He padded his way through the empty halls to the kitchen. He lived mostly alone. Rhodey would come by here and there, but he stayed busy at the Pentagon. He did make sure to stop by and check on him though, so did Pepper. Especially after his last depressive episode. He felt a stab of guilt and regret thinking about it and rubbed at his arm absentmindedly.

He walked over to the cupboards, opening them up and digging around, not really finding much to eat except some oatmeal and fruit—probably courtesy of Pepper. She was always looking out for him.

The task of cooking oatmeal seemed tedious and overwhelming in his state of mind, but he'd learned his lesson about taking medication on an empty stomach after nearly developing an ulcer in the past—something Pepper and Rhodey both scolded him for like a child.

He grabbed the oatmeal packet and stared at the directions like they were written in a foreign language. He was too tired for this. He wanted to go curl up and just forget for a while, but instead, he dumped the packet in a bowl, splashed what he hoped was the right amount of milk in, and tossed it in the microwave. He leaned against the counter as he waited for it to beep. When it finally did, he took it out and looked at the overcooked mush. He had no energy to cook something else, so he grabbed a spoon and forced it down. Finished, he tossed the bowl in the sink with a mental note to wash it later.

He turned from the kitchen and began his way towards the common room to await Dr. Cho when Friday's voice announced something he wasn't expecting.

"Boss, the team has arrived."

"I'm sorry, Fri," he said, stopping mid-step. "Come again?"

"The team has arrived, sir," Friday responded.

Tony ran a hand through his hair. "Fuck."

"I'm sorry, Boss, but they are making their way inside now. Would you like me to send them to their quarters?"

"No, it's fine. I got this. Thanks."

His heart began to hammer in his chest, and he pressed a palm to the scar that Steve's shield had left behind. Nope. This was a bad idea. What had he been thinking letting them come here? He firmly put this into the column of Tony's Worst Ideas. He couldn't handle this. He needed to breathe.

"Boss, I think it would help if you slowed your breathing," Friday said.

Right. Breathing. He could do that.

In.

Out.

And repeat.

Nope. Not helping.

There was the sound of footsteps and chatter approaching. He had to pull himself together. He drew another deep breath and let it out slowly. He wasn't even presentable. He was in sweats and a hoodie, hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes, thin from not eating—not how he wanted to be seen for the first time in so long.

He didn't have a choice though, because when he looked up from his mini panic attack, he was met with the stares of his old team. At a quick glance, he could see Clint in the back with Natasha, Sam to the right, and Steve and Bucky in the front—two sets of blue eyes locked on his. It felt like too much.

Just keep breathing, he reminded himself. The last thing he needed was a full-fledged panic attack.

Any smiles they had when they walked in seemed to slip from their faces upon seeing him. He couldn't help the sick feeling in his stomach. He looked away, running a hand through his hair. He drew another shaky breath and then looked back up, plastering on the best media smile he could afford.

"Welcome, back," Tony said. "Your rooms are all in the west wing. I did some renovations, hopefully for the better. Sorry, kitchen's not really stocked. I'll take care of it, though. If there's anything special you want, just ask Friday. She'll make sure you get it. Anyway, I've got some projects to work on, so make yourself at home."

He went to turn and make his way toward his workshop, but of course, Steve couldn't just let him leave without making things awkward.

"Tony, are you alright?" Steve asked, eyes locked on him.

Tony flashed him a smile. "Just fine, Cap."

"Boss, Dr. Cho is here for you," Friday said.

"Shit," Tony cursed, stepping back and away from them. "Send her to my workshop. I'll be right there."

Steve went to say something more, to step forward, but before he could, Bucky grabbed Steve's arm and pulled him back. "Let him go, Steve. Now's not the time."

Tony never thought he would be thankful toward Bucky until that moment. Without another word, he escaped down the hall to meet Dr. Cho.