Tony's day of rest was followed by a restless night. During the brief times he was sleeping, he was dreaming, and when he was dreaming, there were nightmares . . . primarily of suffocating, whether in water or in space or in his sleep. Several times he jerked awake, sweating and gasping for breath between coughs.
He gave up on the whole endeavor in the wee hours of the morning. Once he decided he might as well be awake, he had to decide what to do with himself.
The problem of Christmas gifts had been weighing on his mind, and he had an epiphany that he could go down and have Friday tell him what was in the packages already beneath the tree so he had some idea of what would be appropriate for the kids. He'd been exempted from the adult's gift exchange, having been in the hospital when they drew names, but he planned to do something for Rhodey nonetheless.
Thus resolved, he slipped out of bed and readied the portable oxygen the way Rachel had shown them. As he lifted the carrying case he realized he hadn't yet had to cart around his own oxygen; someone had always been on hand to mind that part for him. It wasn't overly heavy and it had a shoulder strap, so it shouldn't have been a big deal.
And yet.
He was already uncomfortable with being tethered to a device thanks to unpleasant memories, memories that were all too fresh after the nightmares. While the oxygen was lighter than that car battery, the idea of having to lug it around put him on the verge of calling off any attempt to leave his bedroom on his own.
But that was stupid. He needed to be able to manage this, and the only way to do that was to power through. Fake it 'til you make it. He set off down the hall toward the elevator.
And it was fine.
Or it would have been if his brain hadn't already been primed to freak out at the slightest provocation . . .
. . . even a provocation as slight as the tightness in his chest and something unfamiliar bumping against his hip.
Just like that, he simply could not abide having the tank and its attached tubing near him, much less physically touching him.
He continued down the hall after shedding the offending items, trying to focus on the images his eyes presented rather than the images his memory presented.
It was hard to breathe. The emptiness of space is crushing him.
It hurt to breathe. The electromagnet is heavy in his chest and he'd surely inhaled some water.
Elevator. He stepped in and could hear his harsh breaths and choking coughs echoed back at him. He was hyperventilating, big surprise. For a moment he thought he heard a woman's voice, but it was hard to hear over his attempts to breathe and then it was gone.
By the time the elevator doors opened again, he'd forgotten why he'd come. He only knew that something was driving him forward and that something was only just keeping the memories at bay, so it was something to heed.
He staggered out of the elevator, one hand against the wall in an attempt to remain upright. The distance to the doors seemed endless, but he made it. He very nearly didn't manage to get the door open without falling-and once he fell, he was fairly certain he wouldn't be able to get up again-but then he was into the main room.
His legs were buckling beneath him, so he fell gracelessly into the nearest chair. He leaned forward, hunching around the ache in his chest, his stomach aching from the coughing.
With nothing left between him and the memories, he was lost.
.
Steve didn't normally go to the common room immediately after a run, but that morning he really wanted some orange juice so he made a detour on his way back up to his room for a shower.
All thoughts of orange juice vanished at the sight of Tony doubled over in a chair, one hand braced on the conference table while the other clutched at his chest where the arc reactor used to be. His breaths between wheezing coughs were ragged and gasping.
"Tony?" Steve inquired, hurrying over and shaking his shoulder. "Sit up, it will be easier," he urged, but Tony did not acknowledge him. "Friday, have you called for help?"
"Colonel Rhodes is on his way," Friday responded.
"Get Rachel up here right now," Steve ordered as he continued his efforts to get Tony to sit up to ease his breathing.
Rhodey burst into the room and pulled up alongside Tony's chair. "Help me get this back on him," he said, holding up the abandoned oxygen tank and tubing.
Between them, they put the cannula back into place, but it didn't seem to help.
Rachel's arrival moments later was a relief to them both. She took stock of the situation and began pulling equipment out of the bulky bag she was carrying. "Plug this in for me," she said shortly, holding an electrical cord out toward Steve. Rhodey was tasked with putting a mask onto Tony's face while Rachel started up the machine.
When it was running, she manhandled Tony into sitting upright and had Steve hold him there. "Breathe for me, Tony," she ordered, snapping her fingers in front of his face until he glared at her. She grinned. "There you are. Deeper, now. In and out. Follow me."
Regaining a normal breathing rhythm involved a good deal of coughing and wheezing, but eventually Tony no longer sounded like he was suffocating. He sagged back into the chair, aware enough of what was around him that Steve didn't need to continue holding him up.
"What happened?" Rachel finally demanded. "Tony, don't try to talk until I say you're done."
Steve and Rhodey contributed what they knew, which didn't explain much. Tony moved the mask slightly to explain himself, but she insisted that Tony focus on breathing, not talking. The standoff lasted several minutes.
"I can't carry it around like that, I-I can't," Tony said finally.
"Why not? It can't be too heavy," Rachel replied.
"It's not."
"Then what's the problem?"
Tony glanced briefly toward Rhodey. "Memories," he murmured. Rhodey looked pained.
"Is there another way to carry the tank around?" Rhodey asked.
"There's a rolling cart apparatus for the larger tanks-" Rachel said.
Tony snorted.
"-Or it can be worn like a backpack," she finished.
Rhodey cast a look at Tony, who shrugged and nodded. "Let's try that," Rhodey said.
.
By the time Rachel unhooked him from the nebulizer, every single Avengers-related person who could show up in the common room had shown up. As everyone had filed past, Tony alternated between humiliation (even the kids had seen him struggling) and defiance (it wasn't his fault his lungs were so severely jacked up right now) and ended up somewhere in between, at embarrassed exhaustion.
To their credit, no one had lingered nearby to gawk. Instead, they carried on with the business of breakfast as if he wasn't making a fool of himself by the door, though there may have been some glances sent his direction.
As much as he dearly wished to turn tail and vanish at the first opportunity, he had the tank to deal with until Rachel could find a backpack-style carrier, and he didn't want to face the return trip to his bedroom just yet. There was no way he'd make it by himself. Plus it was likely he'd be followed by someone professing concern about him, and he didn't want to deal with that, either.
So it was easier to go with Rhodey to the other end of the room, his oxygen tank in Rhodey's lap while he "pushed" the wheelchair, though Rhodey was doing most of the work. He took up residence on a couch, stretched out, and was asleep before anyone could bother him about breakfast.
.
Rachel got the new case to him by evening and he used it the following day to venture down to his workshop.
While getting rid of the oxygen entirely would be the optimal solution, the backpack carrier was a definite improvement. Wearing it like that, he didn't have to think about it, and the tubing was out of sight and tucked away where it was less likely to get caught on things.
This gave him more mobility, assuming he remembered to change the tank. He didn't always remember, but there was always someone around to retrieve a fresh one for him since a fair amount of his time was spent in the common areas. Even when he wasn't in the common areas, someone was nearby or knew where he was, that someone usually being Rhodey.
By the time he'd been back for a week, he'd made definite progress in how far he could manage to go without needing a breather but he chafed at the fact that he still required lengthy daily naps-sometimes twice daily, depending on what he'd been doing and how he'd slept. His attempts at exercise were a mockery of what he used to do and left him feeling like a limp rag. He kept trying; he'd lost muscle mass while in the hospital and he absolutely needed to regain some of it to make suiting up again a possibility.
Not that he was going to be suiting up again anytime soon, but he had to have something to look forward to.