For my darling Bex. Thanks for the new ship. It's all your fault.

Word Count: 2018

Warning: PTSD and not so healthy coping mechanisms

Sam doesn't know exactly what's going on. He's seen the tension in Tony's body, the nervous shifting of his eyes, the panicked energy that just oozes from him.

He asks Steve, but maybe it's a sore subject. Maybe something has happened between them, and Sam doesn't want to pry. All Steve says is that Tony has changed.

And Sam gets it. Really, he does. When you have to fight to stay alive, you change, but you keep moving. He remembers the day Riley died, the day his world was flipped upside down. He had lost his best friend and his peace of mind.

And he had kept going.

Because that's what you have to do. Because that is how you survive.

…

Maybe he shouldn't be surprised that Tony is at the door, almost like he's waiting for him, before Sam is even halfway down the driveway. He imagines it must be difficult to surprise a tech genius with enough money to buy a small country. Maybe he should consider himself lucky that he's still in one piece.

"If Steve sent you," Tony says, and there's clear annoyance in the way he says the name, "tell him that-"

"It wasn't Cap," Sam tells him. "I'm here because I want to be."

Tony narrows his eyes like he doesn't quite believe him. It's scary the way he studies people. Sam doesn't know what Tony looks for when he does it, but Tony must see something good in him. At the very least, he must see something honest.

Tony lifts his coffee mug. "Cheers," he calls. "Want a cup?"

Sam nods. Coffee with Tony Stark. If anyone had told him five years ago that this would be his life, he never would have believed them.

Tony pushes himself off the frame of the front door and turns his back on Sam, gesturing him inside with a lazy sweep of his hand.

Sam doesn't know exactly what he expects to find inside, but it isn't this. A dozen projects are scattered across the living room. Small projects. Nothing big. Just little things Tony has been tinkering with. Sam raises his brows, taking it all in.

"I just… I have to keep moving," Tony says, and it's like he can read Sam's mind, like he knows Sam sees the scene before him for exactly what it is.

Trauma response.

When Riley died, Sam struggled. He bounced from activity to activity because he knew that standing still would lead to something. He never knew what that something was, but he knew it would be bad.

It wasn't until his third mandatory visit with a therapist that he discovered that he wasn't losing his mind and there was a name for the grief that buried itself deep inside his bones.

Post-traumatic stress disorder. PTSD. Something that never really seems to go away no matter how fast he runs.

"You should see the lab," Tony adds with a shaky laugh that doesn't quite fit someone who has earned a reputation as a bit of an arrogant bastard.

"What happens if you stop moving?" Sam asks.

Tony's jaw clenches, and Sam can see the tension in the muscles in his face. He doesn't respond. Instead, he turns once again and walks out of the room.

"How do you take your coffee?"

Sam wants to press the matter. He doesn't. He knows better. People talk when they're ready to talk, and he just has to accept that.

"Just sugar," Sam calls, following behind Tony.

…

Nothing really happens. They drink coffee, then sit in silence. Tony messes with something with too many wires and buttons and switches that Sam can't identify. Tony drinks more coffee. Another cup. Then another.

"You know you won't be able to sleep with all that caffeine in your system, right?" Sam asks, his eyes flickering to the window. The blue sky has given way to softer shades of orange and pink.

"That's the plan," Tony says, flipping a switch.

His creation twitches once, twice, and catches fire on the third twitch. Tony jumps up, pulling his shirt off and quickly smothering the flame before it can spread.

"Guessing it wasn't supposed to do that," Sam observes.

Tony shoots him a withering glare. "Of course it was. Who in their right mind wouldn't want something to catch their house on fire with the flip of a switch?" he asks dryly, eyes rolling.

"Anyone ever tell you you're a bit of an asshole?"

Tony snorts, amusement clear in his eyes. "They never really stopped, actually." He lifts his shirt and studies the damage. "JARVIS, remind me to invest in more fireproof material." He balls up the charred shirt and tosses it in the trash. "I really loved that shirt."

And, just like nothing has happened, Tony sits again, tinkering with the nearest project. Sam remembers that energy all too well. He still feels it sometimes, on the days when he feels his memories creeping up on him. How long has Tony been running? Is he ever going to stop?

"There's a guest bedroom upstairs," Tony tells him. "Couple of them, actually. Take your pick."

"What?"

Tony pauses his work and looks up at him. "I'm sorry. Did you already get a hotel?"

"No. I…" Sam shrugs. He hadn't even expected to be here this late, so he doesn't really have a plan. "Thanks."

Tony offers him a mock salute before turning his attention back to the metal and wires and whatever the hell else it is. Sam waits, the silence between them so tense that it's almost painful. When Tony doesn't say anything else, Sam climbs to his feet awkwardly. He barely even knows the dude. What's he supposed to do? Just make himself at home?

"Make yourself at home," Tony says, once again seeming to read his mind.

"Got it."

…

Sam doesn't remember his dream. He rarely does. It's only ever flashes of color and sound and images that always blur together into some great nonsensical thing.

But he knows this one must have been a nightmare because he wakes up, gasping for breath while his heart pounds so rapidly in his chest that he's afraid it might find a way to break through the bone. A cold sweat clings to his skin as he looks around, panicking.

This isn't his room. This isn't his home. He can't seem to get his bearings, and everything seems to spin and swirl around him.

The door opens, and Tony stands there. His face is hidden by shadows that dance across his skin, and Sam remembers. In the back of his mind, he wonders if maybe Tony's trauma has triggered something in him, if maybe he's spent too much time thinking about it, too much time standing still, and the memories finally caught up to him.

"I'm fine, man," Sam says, shaking his head.

"Don't be stupid. Of course you aren't," Tony says. "JARVIS, scan vital signs and run a diagnostic on Sam Wilson."

There's a soft glow as something somewhere lights up green. The light moves over Sam. A moment later, a voice reports his heart rate, blood pressure, and body temperature.

"You're not fine," Tony says, moving closer, his strides quick and urgent. "And you're a terrible liar."

Sam shoots him a look. "Really? You're one to talk."

"I have no idea what you mean," Tony insists, but his voice doesn't have its usual edge, that confidence that always seems to drip from every syllable. There's a quiver in his tone, and Sam thinks he knows exactly what he means.

"You do," Sam says, the words barely above a whisper, but they sound so loud to him. "What happens if you stop moving, Tony? What do you see?"

In the silvery moonlight that filters in through the window, Sam sees Tony's lips quirk into a ghost of a smile. "I think maybe we need something better than coffee for that particular conversation."

…

Sam doesn't know how Tony can even stand to drink anything after all the coffee he's had. Maybe these are his only options: wide awake and running, or drunk and blissfully unaware whenever the memories reach him.

"You don't have to drink," Tony tells him as he pours himself something strong. "I have no problem drinking alone."

Sam doesn't drink often. He hates the feeling of being so vulnerable and without control. He opts for a glass of wine to sip as Tony talks.

And he really does open up, like this is the first time he's let himself stop and feel. Maybe it is. He tells Sam everything. Loki, the creatures from another world, and so many other fantastic and impossible things.

Except Sam knows they aren't impossible. He's seen so much since he became Steve's companion. Impossible is just another word for not very likely.

"I don't… I can't keep anyone safe," Tony says. He laughs, and the sound is dry and bitter, and it breaks Sam's heart. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

"You're a mess."

The laugh that bubbles from Tony's throat is more genuine than the last. "Don't spare my feelings, Sam," he says.

"It isn't an insult. It's just the simple truth," Sam says, shrugging. He sips his wine. "I'm still a mess too sometimes. Sometimes I'm barely holding on."

"What happened to you?"

And so Sam tells him. As he speaks, he feels conflicting emotions. Talking about Riley somehow hurts him as it heals him, like speaking his name is enough to take the sting out of his heart. Still, it almost feels like a betrayal, like he shouldn't talk about Riley to anyone else, like he should keep that chapter of his life locked away and hidden.

"Shit." Tony pours himself another drink. "Looks like we're both a little broken."

"I don't think so," Sam says. "Hurting doesn't mean broken."

"Sure feels like it." Tony knocks back his drink, sighing heavily. "I don't know what to do about the nightmares."

Sam almost laughs. It's something he hasn't figured out yet. Maybe he should have by now, but the answer always seems to be just out of his reach. "I think all we can really do is face it," he says.

"Maybe," Tony mutters, studying his empty glass before setting it on the bar. "I think I might try to face it tonight. Care to join me?"

Heat floods through Sam's face. He thinks he knows what Tony means, but he can't be sure if Tony is joking or not. "Join you?" he asks, studying the other man curiously, unsure of how to react.

"We're both a little screwed up," Tony says with a shrug. "May as well have a little company. Besides, you're pretty easy on the eyes."

Sam doesn't really think about it. The warmth in his cheeks fades, and he follows Tony out.

…

As Sam lies in Tony's bed, sleepless eyes fixed upon the ceiling, his mind begins to wander. He doesn't know if this means something, or if Tony just needs a warm body and a beating heart beside him. Maybe this could have happened with anyone. Maybe Tony would have happily curled up with Steve or Nat or Fury.

He doesn't think too much about it, though. As Tony gasps and thrashes around in his sleep, Sam is there. He is careful with his movements because he knows how dangerous touch can be when someone is like this, but he rolls over, hoping Tony can feel the gentle pressure as Sam breathes in and out, a subtle way to remind him that he is not alone.

"Shhh," Sam soothes. "Shhh."

Tony settles again, his arm wrapping around Sam and pulling him close.

They're both a mess and haunted, and maybe they're a little but cracked. That's okay. They aren't broken, and there is hope for them.

"It's going to be okay," Sam whispers, and he doesn't know if he's telling himself, or if he's hoping his words will find their way into Tony's dreams and reassure him.

All he knows is that he has to believe.