A/N: So, basically, I haven't slept in 36 hours and I'm kind of delirious, and posting this seemed rather appropriate. It's resided in my folder for a while, but I figured it was time to give you guys something new again, so enjoy!
And BEWARE THE ANGSTY FLUFF! (I don't even know, lol, ignore me-)
Every.
Single.
Time.
Tony hated sleep. He forced himself awake for days just to stay in the present, to keep a grip on what was real, until he was weak with exhaustion and high on caffeine and if Steve or Pepper didn't find him, he may well end up killing himself down in his workshop. The nightmares were more than he could stand—a gaping hole in his chest hooked to a car battery, Yinsen dying before his eyes, his father's drunken rages, or the bodies of the other Avengers, lying bloodied and broken at his feet while he stood unharmed in battle. Nothing but a coward hiding inside a suit.
Every single time his eyes slipped closed, it was a descent into his own personal hell, with no suit to catch him and break the fall.
No one to break the fall.
He hated sleep. When he was obsessing over work, at least his demons couldn't find him.
But even he had picked up on how much pain it put Steve through to see him exhausting himself. Then again, the man worried far too much for his own good, anyway. He'd begun hanging out in the workshop to watch Tony work, making sure he remembered to eat and removing him by force when he refused to sleep after more than forty-eight hours.
He watched Tony's projects grow more and more advanced, studying him closely, as though trying to put together the pieces of an impossible puzzle and not just sketching him from the angle of the workshop couch.
Because Tony Stark was indeed impossible to figure out.
Closing his sketchbook and setting aside the pencil, Steve gave up with a sigh. "When will you stop?" he finally asked, watching Tony work—the look of intense concentration on his face, calloused and grease-smeared hands fiddling with intricate parts.
Tony didn't even look up. "When it's enough," he replied, a little too quickly. Enough to rid him of the demons. Enough to make up for his utter illiteracy when it came to emotions. Enough to make right his crimes. Enough. It would never be enough.
Tony prayed only he caught the strained tones in the offhandedness of his own voice.
But both Steve and Pepper seemed to have a sixth for evasiveness; with a slight glance at the man on his couch, Tony immediately knew Steve hadn't bought it. But he didn't press it, either. Tony was grateful.
Pepper had always pressed him until it touched a nerve, and the two of them would end up fighting for weeks because she was just so god damned female. She'd always had to know exactly what was on his mind, and while it was invasive and annoying at times, at least it had given Tony a sense that someone really did care.
She'd given him a reason to live and something to cling to when he woke in terror in the dead of night, shivering and sweating and choking in pain. Ghostly memories of pain that stabbed through him and made him grab for the arc reactor, ensuring it was still there, still functioning. Tony had never felt more guilty than the times it ached, and Pepper knew it—she always knew. She'd lean down to kiss the circle of light at the center of his chest after the nightmares, trying to keep the disgust off of her face. She hated the one thing that was keeping Tony alive.
Try as she might, she just couldn't fill the gaping hole in his chest, no matter how much she meant to him. She was the best friend he had, but nothing more.
It had taken them a while to accept it, but in the end they'd both agreed that it would be better for things to go back to the way they were before. It was horrible that Tony couldn't really say he missed her. The only thing he missed was knowing there was someone to hold him—to break the fall.
He was alone again, and even with the presence of the other Avengers and Coulson and work to distract him, beyond the light of day, all the memories and thoughts and horrors of the past he'd worked so hard to bury came rushing back in one terrible surge. He couldn't stop them, couldn't escape, couldn't hide forever. He was trapped in his own mind, slowly losing his grip on what was real with no one there to ground him.
There were nights he regretted letting JARVIS restrict all weapons from entering his room. A simple shot to the head, and he could fade away into blackness—relief. Eternal sleep, with no nightmares to haunt him.
He could run away—give up—like the coward he was.
Of course, for Tony, suicide would be easier than most; all it required was the removal of the glowing blue light that kept him alive, that Pepper hated so much, and in days he would be in the hospital with the shrapnel tearing him apart from the inside.
Tony Stark was no hero.
Tony Stark was even too much of a coward to end his own life.
He let himself get hurt working on projects; he bruised himself and burned himself and let his skin tear on stray scraps of metal. He never let anyone touch the wounds or the scars they left in their wake, either—not any of the girls he brought home, not Pepper, who hated them, too, or even any of SHIELD's doctors, in the rare event he allowed himself to be dragged away for the monthly physical assessment. For a while, now, Steve had sensed there was something strange about how Tony had used to flop with everyone in a big, happy heap on the couch for movie night, and talk about his projects, and actually be seen outside of his workshop.
For at least a month he hadn't joined in to the pile of warmth and goofiness, spoken more than ten words of what he was working on, or come to meals with everyone else.
He'd flinched when Steve had accidentally brushed him in the hallway yesterday.
Steve wasn't putting up with this anymore; he caught Tony's hand, and before he could turn and run from the workshop or yank away, he pulled back the brunette's sleeve to expose a deep, grotesque rainbow bruise on his forearm.
How had he—?
Blue eyes looked overwhelmed and confused and frightened, and Tony took off before Steve had a chance to open his mouth.
Tony hated being alone; he hated the way Steve looked at him more, though, because the pain and confusion in those blue eyes was almost too much to bear. He hated that Steve was searching for him now, making him want to let go so badly, but leaving him with the knowledge of what would happen when he did. Not if, but when. He was so weak—couldn't it all just disappear?
Thoughts of Steve and his honesty and strength and his mother-hen-ing of this fucked-up family of spies and agents and heroes and destructive, arrogant assholes were really the only thing keeping him alive these nights.
He rolled over, shaking his head.
Of all people, it had to be Steve.
The one person he could never have.
Piling the covers on top of him so maybe he wouldn't feel quite so horribly alone, Tony forced his eyes shut and braced himself for the terrible replays to come.
At one in the morning, Steve's eyes snapped open.
He had no idea why he'd woken so suddenly, with the strange sense that something was wrong looming over him, but it didn't disappear with a shake of his head as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. The room was still and shadowy, the sounds of the city below murmuring up to him, peacefully. Nothing was out of place. Steve rolled over with a sigh, throwing off the covers and nearly shivering as chill air came rushing in.
Running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair, he started for the door and stepped carefully out into the hallway, always cautious to be silent; even though Tony would give him a prompt scolding were he ever to mention it, and he knew there wasn't one in the entire tower, the old habit of watching out for creaky floorboards died rather hard. Even though only he and Tony shared the same hallway for sleeping quarters, Steve always shivered to think of the wrath of an angry Natasha, woken from her dreams by his badly-judged footwork. That woman could probably hear a pin drop over highway noise from fifteen miles away.
The corridor was dark and silent, the soft, lively glow of city lights casting fuzzy beams across the floor.
At first the sheer technology of the tower had been daunting in itself—not to mention the life of the city at its feet. For nearly a month after moving in, Steve hadn't slept well over the modern-city sounds of distant laughter and yelling and car horns honking and the soft, flickering shadows left by far-off traffic and surrounding buildings, come nighttime, but now he doubted he'd be able to sleep without them.
Again, nothing seemed wrong, and though the nagging sense of worry didn't fade, he sighed inwardly at his own paranoia and headed for the kitchen for a glass of water.
Now, as he leaned against the counter with the cool glass in hand, all traces of drowsiness had long since gone, and he gave a sigh. It would be nearly impossible to go back to sleep now; his mind was already churning and alert. Normally there would be someone else up to snack and chat or watch shitty reality TV with; they all had their share of troubles sleeping. But now, the house was still and silently undisturbed. His sketchbook was back in his room, and he didn't feel like going to get it. It was so peaceful, immersed in warm quiet like this. Alone time. Thinking time. Night was always the best time to think; it was the sole time one's mind let down its daytime barriers, and prejudices and preconceived notions all slipped away
Preconceived notions.
Tony Stark had taught him all about those.
At the surface, the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist had seemed just that—a party boy behind a mask. He'd played the part of a coward hiding inside a suit so well he'd even had Steve fooled. But there were moments—moments Steve had caught a glimpse of the man beneath the facade of pretty words and stinging insults and escape routes or excuses for everything. The Tony Stark he'd thought he'd known had fully intended to sacrifice his own life for the sake of New York.
And that was when Steve had begun seeing Tony beneath it all. Tony, who stifled himself with fake smiles and snappy comebacks, who was genuine and broken and worked himself to the point of suicide to make up for all that he blamed himself for. His preconceived notions had begun to waver.
By the end of his first month living at Avengers Tower, telling Tony he wasn't a hero had been haunting Steve like no mistake he'd ever made before.
Because no matter what had slipped out of his mouth, and no matter how angry he'd been, Tony had proved himself, time and time again, to be one of the greatest heroeshe'd ever met.
The most incredibly intelligent, without a doubt.
Among the bravest—the most annoyingly, stupidly, lovably reckless.
One of the most broken.
There were fragments of the puzzle in his projects, and his silence, and his sleeplessness; in the bruises and bandages and in the deep shadows of pain behind rich, unreadable brown eyes. Steve had found so many pieces—too many. He should know by now what was out of place. He should be fixing it. Tony was so much more than met the eye.
And part of him was suffering.
Tony, with his warm dark eyes, like mirrors, framed by soft lashes, who had the slightest ghosts of freckles on his nose and lived off of coffee and was dangerously allergic to cats. Tony, who had a distinct look of concentration for every task he confronted, and resisted leaving the workshop even when he was almost too weak to walk and practically drifting off on Steve's shoulder—who berated himself for 'not working hard enough' even after a collapse from exhaustion. Tony, who had helped Bruce learn to joke about the Other Guy, and who had taken the man under his wing without a second's hesitation.
Witty, brilliant, sarcastic, beautiful, hardworking Tony, who really did have a heart, after all.
That was the Tony whom Steve had fallen in love with.
A sudden small rustling made Steve glance up, setting the glass on the counter and carefully scanning the shadowy kitchen. Five seconds; ten. Nothing. He sighed, rolling his eyes and shaking his head at his own illogical jumpiness. Why on earth was he acting this way?
But as he made his way back down the hall, the sound came again and he stopped dead, ears perked. The rustling of bedsheets? And if Steve listened closely enough, he could almost hear someone muttering restlessly.
It was coming from Tony's room.
Knowing full well that he had been too exhausted to walk properly when he'd dragged him from his workshop that evening and forced him to go to bed, Steve was perplexed. He pressed his ear to the door, worry spiking in his stomach—was something wrong? Had something happened with the Arc Reactor? A million horrible scenarios flooded into his mind, and it took Steve a moment to crush them all. Nothing had happened to Tony—he was probably just rolling over in his sleep.
Still, biting the inside of his lip anxiously, Steve carefully pushed open the door.
A silent sigh of relief sent all his fears scurrying at the sight of Tony curled into a ball at the center of the bed, buried beneath a mountain of covers, the Arc Reactor's soft blue glow illuminating his face. He looked so tired, even resting, and still, a small smile worked its way onto Steve's lips. His strangest habits seemed to display themselves only when he was asleep. Somehow the idea that Tony Stark slept beneath an enormous mound of blankets in the very center of a king-sized bed was oddly fitting. With a soft chuckle, Steve made to pull the door shut again and continue on his way down to the training area, finally content that nothing was out of place.
But then Tony shuffled, curling tighter inside his fortress of blankets.
Steve froze.
"Tony?" he murmured, slightly sheepish. If he'd been caught watching Tony Stark sleep, there was no way he'd ever be able to live it down. But he was greeted only with silence.
He took a cautious step closer, pushing the door quietly closed behind him. "Tony?" he asked again, slightly awkward, knowing that this would really seal the deal if Tony was truly awake and just playing games.
A soft, shaking sound; Tony curled tighter on the bed, and Steve felt all of his worries come flooding back, knowing that if Tony had been faking, he would have burst out laughing long before now. Closing the distance between himself and the bed without a second thought, all notions of pranks vanished from his mind.
Tony was trembling.
It was far too hot beneath those sheets to even think of shivering; Steve watched, biting his lip, as he rolled over, twisting restlessly. A single glimpse of his face was all it took to bring all the puzzle pieces crashing into place.
Nightmares.
Tony had nightmares.
Tony had nightmares and Steve hadn't figured it out.
Again Tony twisted, shaking harder, the pillow clenched in a death grip. He was muttering under his breath, twitching in dream-terror, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. Steve's heart cracked.
"S-Steve," he choked out under his breath, making Steve jump, feeling even more helpless as Tony twisted again, quivering. "No, shit, d-don't die—"
Without a second thought, Steve climbed into the bed beside Tony. He didn't even know what he was doing—only that Tony was in hell. He'd been enduring absolute hell, and he'd never even breathed a word.
He pulled Tony into his arms, feeling him shaking against him, his feverish heat washing over him. As terrified as he must be, Steve still hated to wake Tony from his sleep. He needed it so terribly. Tony unconsciously curled closer to him, so tense every muscle in his body was rock hard against his chest, another quivering sound of pure terror tearing from his throat.
Steve bit his lip.
A gentle shake to his shoulder seemed to bring him halfway back to reality, and Steve hugged him tight, forehead resting in the crook of his neck, breath ghosting gentle and reassuring against sweat-soaked skin.
"Shh," he breathed softly, letting it linger around them in the room. He didn't even know why he was doing this, but it just felt right. His fingers ran the length of Tony's spine with a feather-light touch, memorizing every detail. "I'm right here, Tony," he whispered.
He could feel it when Tony finally jolted fully awake. He burst into reality like a drowning man from water, breath coming in harsh gasps, dark eyes snapping open wide with panic. Even as he glanced around wildly, desperate for a bearing on something in the room, Steve held him close, breathing gently against his neck and running gentle fingers the length of his spine, until finally he let go a sigh of relief as he felt Tony begin to calm. Tony let out a shaking breath, going weak against his chest. One hand reached up to run a hand through his matted brown hair wearily, and Steve finally let out a sigh he hadn't known he'd held, relaxing into Tony and hugging him, now that the immediate danger had passed.
A moment of quiet breathing and warmth, and then suddenly brown eyes snapped open again, and Tony jerked away.
"HolyshitSteve?" he yelped, a shaky note of panic tight in his voice.
Steve nodded, stomach plummeting; a line had just been crossed. He was sure of it.
The reality of the situation suddenly came to smack him hard across the face.
He felt himself blushing in shame, realizing that he'd probably just ruined his friendship with the man he loved and who didn't love him in return, and he mumbled an apology, making to get out of the bed. A hand caught his shoulder.
"N-no, it's fine, Steve," Tony said quickly, bringing him back down to the mattress. "I just—shit, it's great to see you and all but—God fucking dammit—I—erm, hi—?"
Steve still felt his face burning, and bit his lip, again turning away uncertainly. "I-I should go," he muttered. "Sorry, Tony, I didn't mean to—"
"No!"
A hand caught his quickly, sending a sudden shock of warmth through him. Blue eyes met brown—an unspoken question. Finally Steve sighed and rolled over to face Tony again, stomach doing a cliché little flip at the thought that this wasn't over Tony's gay line.
Another flip—what if he didn't have a gay line?
What if Tony was gay himself?
Steve's heart was practically in his throat. He swallowed it and took a deep, silent breath to calm himself down, giving Tony's warm, rough hand a gentle squeeze before he let go for a moment, only to switch it to his other hand while he tentatively reached up to brush away a stray strand of brown hair from his face. Tony watched him, calm and unobjecting, but unreadable. His dark eyes were unreadable, so much of the time. Painfully so.
Silence. They lay there watching each other, awkwardness slowly dissipating, for at least a minute before Steve broke the quiet.
"I wish you would've said something about the nightmares," he murmured simply.
Tony tensed, hand tightening around Steve's slightly, but then he sighed and swallowed hard. "It's not exactly something I wanted you finding out." Brown eyes flickered downward from Steve's gaze.
He couldn't help it; he slipped a hand beneath Tony's chin gently and tilted his face up again. Tony looked cornered. Steve let out a soft breath, taking a leap of faith and beginning rubbing slow, gentle circles into the back of his hand with his thumb.
"Why?" he whispered.
"It's not like you could do anything to help," he muttered. A note of bitterness crept into his voice, dark eyes shifting down again. Steve shook his head.
"I can."
He knew how horrible it was to lay alone, terrified, waking with tears streaming down his face or pain shooting through his clenched muscles. He knew how many times he had longed for someone to cling to.
Letting go of Tony's hand, he reached out to gather the smaller man in his arms, curling around him protectively, sliding gentle arms around his waist. His skin was still hot and sticky from terrified sweat, and Steve felt him tense, rubbing slow circles into his back until finally, finally, Tony relaxed into his chest.
Steve let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Tony was fine. Tony was alright. He was safe.
"I just wish you'd trusted me," he murmured at long last.
Tony looked taken aback. "I do trust you," he said quietly.
Steve resisted the urge to press a gentle kiss to his temple, holding him close. The glow of the arc reactor illuminated his face, reflecting in dark eyes beautifully enough to be almost hypnotic. He swallowed and forced his gaze away.
"Are they about Afghanistan?" he asked quietly, after a moment's pensive silence. Tony tensed again, but then nodded into his shoulder.
Rubbing his back gently, Steve sighed. "I have nightmares too," he murmured. Tony didn't move this time, didn't tense, instead just looked up into his eyes, still illuminated with that spellbinding glow. Their noses nearly brushed, but neither backed away; Steve felt his arms tighten around Tony's waist.
"When they unfroze me..." he swallowed hard, fighting back the memories. "I was terrified. I'd even lost the world I grew up in. I had no one but SHIELD, to keep me from drowning in my own mind."
He let out a sigh, looking at Tony earnestly, trying to memorize every detail of his face.
"And then there was you," he finished softly, before he felt his own quiet smile fade and he shook his head. "I just... I thought you knew you could trust me. And even then, I should've been able to tell something was—"
"It's not your fault, Steve," Tony whispered. He fell silent for a moment, before letting out a shaky chuckle. His eyes were unreadable. As always. "I guess you're not as strong as you seem," he murmured softly. Steve chuckled, too, shaking his head, holding Tony's warmth closer. He was wonderfully warm, soft in his arms.
A slow sigh from the brunette, and finally, he relaxed into Steve's closeness. "Then I guess we can be weak together, huh?" he whispered.
Steve smiled, resisting the urge to nuzzle Tony's soft, messy hair that smelled ever-so-faintly of citrus shampoo.
For a few minutes they lay together in silence, reveling in the sounds of each other's slow breathing and warmth and companionship. Steve felt slightly guilty breaking the silence as he felt Tony beginning to drift away.
"Go to sleep," he breathed against his ear, almost too softly to be heard. "I'll keep you safe."
Tony nuzzled against his chest with a contented sound, and Steve fought a lovestruck grin from his face, praying his heart wasn't pounding hard enough for him to feel it.
"Thanks, Cap," Tony slurred quietly, already completely relaxed, falling still and warm and peaceful in his arms. Steve reached up to stroke his tangled hair softly, listening to the soothing sound of deepening breathing, and feeling the gentle, steady hum of the arc reactor pressed softly against his chest. He'd never felt so content—so whole—in his life. He would have gladly held a sleepy Tony close to him forever.
His breathing had fallen into a gentle pattern of rising and falling that brought a soft smile to Steve's lips; this was the Tony he knew. Beautiful, broken Tony. He gazed down at him for a few breaths, taking in the soft, dark lashes fallen against his cheekbones and the sharpness of his collarbone against flaccid muscles.
Inhale, exhale. He felt Tony's chest rising and falling against his with his breaths, smiling again. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
Tony was asleep, and Steve couldn't help himself any longer. He leaned down to press a slow, soft kiss to his forehead gently, letting it linger, letting out a breath and gathering him closer. He couldn't control his smile.
"I love you," he breathed softly against his skin.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when Tony spoke.
"What a coincidence," he mumbled, not even bothering to remove his face from Steve's chest. "So do I."
Steve had frozen in horror, but now he felt all the tension flowing out of him in one great wave, and he laughed after a moment, pulling Tony closer, burying his face in his hair and kissing his head, rocking him slowly. "Oh my God, Tony," he breathed, laughing again into his hair. "I love you."
Tony just mumbled something unintelligible and snuggled closer in Steve's arms. Steve chuckled under his breath, and the two of them lay in silence for a minute, before Steve broke it again.
"Can I kiss you?" he asked softly.
Tony laughed. "Be my guest," he mumbled—"In the morning."
Neither of them had nightmares that night.