If you'll close your eyes at night
Steve has nightmares sometimes. Vicious, all-consuming things that rip him from reality with the kind of ferocity that he privately thought could be harnessed into a usable energy source.
Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, SHIELD had called it, Agent Coulson handing him a sleek business card with the name of a recommended shrink printed on the stark white background in thin black letters; common in soldiers returning to civilian life from the war, nothing more than a statistic for the American government to count up at the end of the year.
Steve was inclined to disagree, if just a little. He wasn't a soldier returning to casual nuances of day-to-day life, he wasn't confused with what was reality and what was a figment of his imagination. No, he was a man who had closed his eyes seventy years ago fully prepared to surrender to the freezing embrace of the ocean only to open them in another millennia entirely where everything was so different and frightening and he was considered one of biggest heroes of all time. Where he was almost worshiped and revered and he was expected to take it – everything, the technology, the aliens, the gods and the frightening memory that the war that felt like yesterday to him was over half a century old – in stride.
He could still remember the sharp flash of fire and the acidic burning of smoke that filled his lungs, remembered sprays of blood and gore and the feeling of wind rushing loudly past his ears as Bucky's fingers slipped inches from his own, remembered Peggy's voice – thick with unshed tears – promising him a future that he would sleep right through and he could still remember the jarring impact as his plane crashed down into the ice – so cold it burned, burned so bloody much – and he thought 'this is it, I'm gone' and 'I'm sorry Peggy, Bucky' among other things.
He remembered his eyelashes, thick with frost, brushing down to fan across his cheeks as he let out a shuddering breath and thought of everything he'd ever done in his life and a million and one things he'd never get the chance to.
No matter what anyone else told him, no matter how many times people reminded him he was alive, in theory, merely frozen waiting to be rescued… No matter what, Steve still remembered dying.
So, when Coulson suggested he seek therapy Steve might have been guilty of ripping the stupid business card into a dozen little pieces and watching with an almost demented feeling of frustration as they fluttered onto the cold, tiled floor in a sprinkle of snow.
The war, the dying, the revival and the subsequent catapult into a world so different it might as well be alien are not things you just talk about and get over.
So, instead, Steve has his nightmares.
He awoke with a rasping gasp, spots dancing across the black expanse of his vision, fingers clutching desperately into the wrinkled, sweat-soaked sheets surrounding him. For a moment, Steve stared blankly upwards as adrenaline thrummed loudly through his veins and filled his ears with a feasible rushing sound, the jerk from dreaming to awake so sudden and unexpected that nausea swirled in the pit of his stomach.
It was nightmare.
Of course it was a nightmare.
It was always a nightmare.
And fuck, he was so cold.
Fumbling with unsteady fingers, Steve rolled over and squinted at the illuminated dial of the alarm clock he insisted on having on side of the bed because it felt too strange, even now, to address Jarvis out of nowhere for things as simple as the time.
3:47am.
Breath gusted unhappily out between chapped lips as Steve levered himself upright, the light sheen of sweat on his skin sticking unpleasantly to the cotton sheets and gluing his ratty shirt firmly to his chest.
He was trembling with the last vestiges of the same thrill that had left him feeling like he'd been socked in the stomach and Steve was a little disgusted when he realized that tears – tiny, inconsequential – had leaked out of the corners of his eyes sometime during sleep and mingled sickeningly with the perspiration that made his face shine in the faint light of the moon that steeped the room around him in white-painted shadows.
His skin felt icy and shivers continued to spiral up and down his spine.
It was the middle of July and the heat had reached its peak only the previous night leaving most of the Avengers to retire to bed scantily clad or, in some cases, not at all, kept awake by the pervading humidity that even the industrial air-conditioning of the mansion couldn't remove from the sluggish atmosphere.
The door to the master bedroom as was ajar, left that way when Steve had stumbled in the previous night too tired to bother even sleepily lashing out with a foot to kick it closed.
He'd been tired. So fucking tired, running on too little sleep and exhausted from trying to pretend he was fine during the day. That he wasn't, at times, dozing off in debriefings and catching glimpses of bloodied faces and frozen bodies of people that had died decades ago.
The rest of the Avengers deserved better than a leader who couldn't even pretend that he was surviving on little more than will-power alone and Steve would do everything he could to give it to them. His problems were his own and he knew the rest of the crew had their own issues to deal with, their own demons and their own nightmares and he really didn't think that they needed to deal with Steve's on top of that.
The room was untouched, pristine to the extent that it almost seemed false. Steve's jeans lay crumpled at the foot of the bed, a towel from his shower laying draped over the back of a desk chair and his sketch book was resting open on the floor beside him from where it'd slipped off the silken bed covers when Steve's attempt at keeping himself awake through the dull scratch of pencil on paper failed; small details of Steve's existence and life within the bedroom that seemed incongruous with the casual detachment of the rest of the space.
The bed was cool and empty beside him, mused only from Steve's night-time thrashing.
Tony hadn't come to bed yet.
Sometimes, when Steve had his nightmares, nothing was more comforting than waking up with a half-sob choking in his throat only to feel the familiar press of another body at his side, snoring softly with one arm tossed carelessly over his waist; an anchor holding him in this reality.
In times like that, Steve thought he might cry from relief and after long minutes spent calming his racing pulse he would feel confident enough to press his face into the cool flesh of Tony's chest, fingers tracing the soft glow of the arc reactor as he listened to the forgiving thrum of his heart that lulled him back into a dreamless sleep and held the terrors and memories at bay.
Sometimes, however, when Steve awoke it was to concerned eyes and a steadying hand pressing him back down onto the mattress – "It's alright, it was just a dream, I got you" – and humiliation and shame would colour his cheeks as he tried to play it off, rolling over to put a gap between himself and Tony, pressing his face into the soaked surface of his pillow as he tried to stem the images that rolled unbidden through his mind.
He didn't want Tony to see him like that; desperate and pathetic, caught in the unrelenting grips of childish fears.
Another shiver coursed down Steve's spine as his teeth chattered together from the chill that was skidding along just below his skin.
He was so cold.
Middle of summer with the claustrophobic images of darkness and ice lingering at the very back of his mind, and Steve was cold.
In one swift movement Steve pushed himself off the mattress, keeping a firm grip on the sheets as they flowed of the bed behind him and, after a moment of rustling, had them comfortably draped around his shaking frame knotted in his fists at the front.
"Jarvis?" Steve's voice was rough, gravelly from the gasping nightmares.
"Yes Captain Rogers?"
"Ah, Tony? Where, umm –."
"He's downstairs in his workshop," Jarvis informed him smoothly. Of course. Being an AI and all. Steve wasn't sure why he'd expected anything less. "Do you desire me to inform him you wish him to retire to bed?"
"No," Steve said hastily. "That's okay. I'll just go and see him."
"As you wish, Captain Rogers."
"Uh, yeah. Thanks." He paused for a moment, gathering the sheets a little closer around himself as he licked his lips. "And you don't have to call me Captain Rogers. You can, you know… Steve is fine."
There was a pregnant silence for a moment before Jarvis replied, "As you wish, Steve."
Steve was reasonably sure he wasn't imagining the smile behind the surprisingly British accent of the computer.
The sound of the television filtered in through the ajar door and as Steve ventured down the hall, squinting in the sudden bright light, the fuzzy sound became clearer. Stoping briefly to duck his head in a passing room he discovered Clint sprawled lazily out across one of the immaculate sofas, one hand buried in a pack of Doritos and the other nursing a cool drink of some kind that Steve couldn't quite make out through his squinting eyes.
On the television Robin Hood pulled the sting of his bow taunt and let loose a volley of arrows. Clint scowled and muttered something under his breath, fishing a corn chip out from the bright red packet and tossing it half-heartedly towards the screen for its archery inaccuracy.
Steve left him to wallow in the dull cast of the screen and continued his journey down the hall.
Nights like this were becoming more and more common as the heat wave stretched on and on and the Avengers began getting less and less sleep. It worried Steve because nobody was better versed in his team's ridiculous sleeping habits than he himself.
And then there was Tony who didn't get enough sleep as it was.
Reaching the workshop Steve punched in the code for the door, fingers snagging in the sheets as they began to slip from his grip. As the door slid open Steve was greeted with pounding guitar solo of some ACDC song or another, cranked almost as high as the air-conditioning that gusted his sweat-slickened hair backwards off his face.
The air smelt thickly of grease and oil, causing Steve to wrinkle his nose fondly as he picked his way through the room and the electronic junk strewn across every available surface – Tony being Tony and all, there was admittedly a lot of space for the sprawl of mess that followed Tony everywhere with a dedication that was a bit worrying.
"Tony?" He called out softly as another chill – completely unrelated to the artificial breeze playing along his damp skin – shuddered through him. Steve frowned and tugged at the sheets as they slithered behind him across the concrete floor, weaving through the room.
Under the ridiculously loud strain of the music Steve could detected the dull roar of power tools and sure enough as he turned around one steal bench he found Tony hunched over a garbled, discombobulated mess of metal, welding mask pulled down over his face and a blowtorch flaming in one hand.
The back of his shirt was so drenched that it was nearly see through, clinging tightly to the muscles that rippled across his back as he moved fluidly, sweat slowly tracing the curves of his neck and the visible tufts of hair at his nape limp against his skin.
Because only Tony would be huddled up using a blowtorch when it was over a hundred degrees out.
As Steve cocked one eyebrow in semi-amused semi-annoyed observation, the blue tinged flames died and Tony took a step back from his project, tossing the torch and mask aside with the kind of carelessness that caused Steve to wince. Wiping his hands on a rag hanging out from his back pocket, Tony took several quick steps to a nearby work desk and with a flick of his calloused fingers brought the high-tech blue grids to hover in the air before him.
That was something Steve felt he'd never adjust to seeing.
Back in his day – and god, didn't he sound like his grandmother right now? – the closest thing to an airborne piece of technology he'd seen was during Howard Stark's attempt to demonstrate a hover-car – which hadn't exactly worked like a charm. Now, however, images and numbers danced beneath Tony's fingers with practised ease that almost made Steve start doubting the reality of it.
Suddenly, Tony stiffened and his dark eyes flicked up from his computer generated images and settled on Steve, blinking in surprise for a moment before one hand reached up to scratch through his hair as a faint smile quirked his lips up. "Oh, Steve."
"Who did you think it was?" Steve frowned, moving closer and allowed Tony to draw him in with one hand wrapping gently around his wrist so he could tug him flush against his chest while his free hand returned to configuring calculations.
"I don't know? Bruce, maybe? He came by for something before but I don't know, I wasn't really listening so…"
Steve's frown deepened. Last night Bruce had ventured down into the depths of the mansion to see if Tony was interested in surfacing for dinner only to return empty handed and with an empathetic gaze as he shrugged half-heartedly at Steve.
"Tony, that was hours ago."
"Was it?" He hummed absently, scowling suddenly as he flicked his fingers and sent something spinning off to a different screen.
"Do you even know what time it is?"
"Err, midnight maybe? I don't know, haven't really been paying attention."
"It's four in the morning, Tony."
"Is it?" He asked in surprise, turning to look at Steve who tried his hardest to aim an annoyed expression at him. "Then what are you doing up?"
Instantly Steve's mouth went dry and he felt as though his body had been dunked in cold water as his shivering began anew, faint dream like flickers of slate-grey ice and red tinted water flashed behind his eyes. Steve pulled the sheets tighter around himself and worked to clear his throat, schooling his face into what he hoped was a neutral expression.
"No reason. I… just, you weren't in bed and it was late, so…"
Tony arched an eyebrow sceptically, his bramble coloured gaze locked with Steve's own blue one.
"Really?" He asked in that tone of his that's somehow both scratchy with sleep and alert with suspicion.
For a moment, Steve felt himself slipping back to seventy years ago with the dull roar of wind catching on the arching wings of a jet he really shouldn't be piloting but somehow is, back with the icy feel of the declining cabin pressure and the loud pounding of his heart – ba-dump, ba-dump – and his eyes are flickering closed, the plane coasting down, down, down…
"Yes," Steve says firmly, even as a tremor causes his fingers to shake, "Really."
Tony doesn't believe him, Steve can see it in his gaze, the way his eyebrows draw downwards for a moment to knit just over the bridge of his nose before the momentary tension vanishes and he lets out a weary sigh, wrapping his arm more firmly around Steve's waist and tugging him so his back is pressed flush against Tony's chest and even through the shelter of the sheets Steve can feel the sweaty dampness that the air-conditioning has yet to remove.
"You feel gross," Steve comments. "You should really go take a shower or something. What were you doing down here, anyway?"
"I'm never gross," Tony muttered as he set the sharp point of his chin on the familiar hollow between Steve's shoulder and the stretch of skin to the side of his neck, the scratch of his goatee guarded by the sheets. "Like, really, I have whole magazine articles on how not-gross I am. Fan clubs and the like, all completely dedicated to how I'm really, really not gross."
"I don't think they've ever felt what you feel like in hundred degree heat."
"Nope, that pleasure's all yours." And because Tony is by nature a flirt, even when it's so hot that aliens, gods and all other manner of paranormal creatures have decided to take the night off and spare the city, even when he hasn't slept in going on forty-eight hours, he presses a kiss to the small patch of exposed skin just below Steve's ear.
"So, what are you doing?" Steve asks because it's usually a good idea to distract Tony when he starts getting handsy, and nothing is more distracting for him than the thrill of discovery and invention.
"Hmm? Oh, nothing much really. I was just wondering if I could work another form of metal into the suit. It's more durable, but it's not as flexible, so it's not really working well. I've been trying to thin it out and see if I can meld it into anything remotely close to the sexiness of the Iron Man suit, but yeah, no, it's not really working too well." Tony cast a dissatisfied glance at the wreck of metal Steve had seen him hunched over.
"What's wrong with the current suit?" Steve asked absently as Tony boxed him against the table with one arm holding the edge and the other dancing across the screen in front of them. He gave a half-hearted shrug.
"Nothing really, but it could always use some improvement."
They fell back into silence for a moment with only the distant sound of computer technology that bleeped every now and again and the smooth roar of the air-conditioning. At some point, the music had faded away and another song ceased to take its place, leaving Steve standing in the near quiet against Tony, enjoying the familiar press of closeness and the absent noises that filled the room.
At some point, his eyes began to drift closed and he lent as heavily as he could on his boyfriend without knocking the pair of them over. He was suddenly so sleepy, all those late nights and tiring missions looming at the forefront of his mind in the ease of the moment. He felt like he could drift away right now to somewhere comforting, somewhere safe.
There was a dull shifting behind him and Steve hazily thought that Tony might have said something. "Hmm?"
"I said," Tony repeated fondly, "Let's get you off to bed."
Steve shook his head tiredly and tried to force his eyes open in the suddenly dim light of the workshop. "Not tired."
"Whatever you say soldier," Tony hummed in reply as began manhandling Steve back towards the door.
Steve was admittedly half gone in the dream landscape by this point and try as he may to resist Tony's stubborn leading, he hadn't the energy. Instead, he settled for muttering dully under his breath and trying to convey to Tony that he could walk just fine.
"Are you going to stay up much longer?" He asked wearily as he unconsciously rubbed at his eyes, sheets slipping slightly in his slackened grip. Gently, Tony readjusted them on his shoulders before they managed to fall and trip him over.
For a moment, he didn't receive a reply and something akin to alarm jarred through Steve with such a vibrant intensity he actually managed to jerk awake. Because suddenly he was aware of how that sounded; needy and clingy, desperate like the fear of his nightmares, of merely going to sleep, had leaked through for Tony to see and shit, that was kind of really not what Steve wanted right now – or ever.
Tony, perhaps feeling the way Steve stiffened under his careful, guiding hands let go of Steve's shoulders and instead set both his hands on either side of Steve's face, turning him softly but firmly to look at him and his eyes were that dark shade of brown they got when he was serious and Steve couldn't help but take in a deep breath and hope that he didn't look as worked up as he suddenly felt.
"Don't do that," Tony said after a moment, quiet but determined. Steve was understandably a little thrown and went to open his mouth but Tony shook his head and tightened his grip just slightly so Steve fell silent. "Don't pretend like that."
"Like what?" Steve croaked in reply – and there's ice and wind and blood and he's dying, dying right here in the middle of nowhere – and began to wish he'd never gotten up in the first place because clearly this was beyond a bad idea, downright awful and he'd just made a fool of himself in front of Tony of all people…
"Steve." Tony called his name, stroking one thumb across his cheek, brow furrowed deeply at Steve's deer-in-headlights-expression. "Don't… just, shit, all I'm asking is that you don't pretend like nothing's wrong. I mean, you can talk to me, you know that, right?"
"Tony," Steve began to say – there's nothing wrong, I'm fine – but before he could get another word out Tony cut over him.
"Yeah, no. Just shut up a second will you?" It's not unkind, more exasperated than anything. "Steve, we live in the same house, we share the same bed; I'm not an idiot. I know you have nightmares, and I know you don't like talking about it; I get that, okay? But you can't keep doing this to yourself."
"I'm not doing anything," Steve grumbled, turning his head slightly so he gazed at a point just beyond the left of Tony's shoulder. Smoothly, Tony's hands sailed down from their light grip on his face to rub up and down his arms in what Steve thought should be a vaguely patronizing manner but instead found deeply relaxing. Tension slowly eased from his frame and, because he knew Tony was waiting for him, he reluctantly tuned forward again and met his teammate's eyes.
He didn't look annoyed or irritated or pitying or even mocking – all the things Steve had feared he would be. Instead he looked comforting and reassuring and as clearly caring as someone such as Tony Stark could openly display. "You good?" He asked and Steve nodded shortly.
"Awesome. Now let's go. It's getting a bit late and I think Jarvis might lock me out of the lab if I'm down here much longer."
"Very astute, Sir."
"Yeah, shut up you traitorous scum. I know you told Steve I'd be here," he grumped good-naturally and Steve suddenly felt very normal.
With fingers wrapped loosely around his wrist, Tony began to lead the pair of them back to the master bedroom, talking all the way as he did so. About the Iron Man suit, about the team, about how he had a sneaking suspicion Clint was the one who had been leaving Doritos all over the entertainment room floor.
But not about Steve's nightmares and Steve appreciated that.
The room was as he left it – Sketchbook, jeans, towel – and Steve tossed the mused sheets back on the bed while Tony shut the door and rolled his shoulders as he pulled his grease-slickened shirt over his shoulders and tossed it unceremoniously on the thickly carpeted floor.
Steve watched him do the same routine he'd already seen over a hundred times already with the same curious slightly disbelieving eyes he always had.
He didn't think he'd ever have a day where he didn't look around him – at the tall sky-reaching buildings, the dazzling lights and his glorious team – and not think, how did this happen, when did this happen? Because he certainly didn't remember it – it all felt so sudden, so abrupt, even though he knew it really wasn't so.
Tony turned and caught him staring, cocking one eyebrow at him curiously and smirking in that irritating way of his that Steve admittedly found vaguely charming. "Why Steve, if I didn't know better I'd say you were perving on me."
And because Steve is and always be – despite all of Tony's best attempt to sleaze it out of him – a forties boy at heart, his cheeks coloured and he muttered something along the lines of, "Just shut up," under his breath.
Without having to even be asked, Jarvis dimmed the lights until there was only the faintest glow in the room that turned furniture into shadows and shapes into blurs. Suddenly, with the light drained so quickly away, Steve felt the feather-light touches of sleep at the very edge of his mind, thin tendrils of daze wafting silently through his mind to ensnare him.
But he didn't close his eyes. He wouldn't – couldn't; not tonight.
Tony bundled him into bed with the same rough-gentle pushes he had favoured in the lab and before Steve could even tell him that he wasn't tired, not really, he pulled Steve flush against him, one arm around his waist and the other his shoulders.
It should have been uncomfortable, being so close in such a heat, but it only added further weight to Steve's eyelids. It was tender and calming and a dozen other things that Steve had long since stopped associating with sleep. Tony's fingers gently carded through his hair and Steve's eyes fluttered at the touch.
"You're being awfully nice tonight," He murmured into his pillow.
"Shut up and go to sleep."
"Not tired."
"Sure."
And the wind was burning, whipping past his ears at a thousand miles an hour. Bucky's hand was there – right bloody there – and he was reaching it, could reach it, and his hand ached from the cold and the snow that whistled by but he was so close, just a little bit further and –
"Shh," Tony whispered gently. "It's alright, you can sleep."
Steve thought he might have tried to reply, but the only think that came from his lips was an unintelligible garble that was muffled by his pillow. Tony scooted closer.
Steve had spent so many night alone and awake in bed with nothing but his racing heart to keep him company, but now there was Tony and the warm, comforting press of his closeness, the feel of his breath skating soft and hot along the back of his neck, and maybe that was enough to make up for all those night so lonely and terrified because he mustn't sleep, mustn't close his eyes because the dreams were right there and –
"I got you," Tony breathed, "you can sleep now."
And it was Tony. Always Tony.
So Steve gently relaxed in his grip and allowed his eyes to drift close – to the sound of the air conditioner roaring distantly, to the sound of badly filtered Robin Hood down the hall, to the sound of Tony's breaths, so soft and even in the early-morning gloom – to all the sounds of the now, to the sounds of home.
"Sleep," Tony repeated once more.
And for once, finally, Steve did.