Steve left the helicarrier and went straight for the gym, where he found it spotless. One could never tell that he'd smashed seven punching bags in there.

But as he moved to set up another one, he found himself stopping in his tracks and staring down at his injured hands.

He was losing control. He wasn't spiraling out of control yet, no, but Steve Rogers was slowly going insane under the weight of all the tragedy and stress in his life.

He was terrified, to say the least.

Sinking down on a bench against the wall, he tried to figure out what to do. Asking for help wasn't an option - it was practically instilled in his being. Hell, even back in the old days before everything happened he never liked to ask for help. Not from anyone, not even his best friend Bucky. It was simple: Captain America was never supposed to need help. He could handle everything on his own.

That was what the serum was designed to do, right? Make him invincible?

But Steve Rogers, the scrawny guy from Brooklyn, wasn't invincible. He'd been knocked down too many times to count, but he always got back up again. Wasn't that what appealed to Dr. Erskine so much?

Sighing, the blond man dropped his head into his hands. He was at war with himself. He didn't even know if this was one that he could come out on top of, but he wouldn't go down without a fight.

As this thought crossed his mind, he wasn't sure if it came from Scrawny Steve or Captain America.

Maybe a little bit of both.

-x-

It was well after two in the morning when Steve finally dragged himself from the gym. He was exhausted, both physically and mentally, and the thin scabs on his knuckles had split during his destruction of three more punching bags. Blood was was seeping through the bandages. He made a mental note to change them once he'd gotten back to his room.

He was halfway down the hall to the elevator when he heard it. At first, he wasn't so sure it had been a real noise because he was tired and his brain was tired. But the sound grew louder and more desperate.

More alert now, Steve inched his way down the hall until he was standing face to face with the door to Tony's garage. The noise was louder now; it sounded like a man screaming. Curious and wary, he slowly opened the door.

He couldn't see anything but various cars and machinery, but the screaming was amplified now. With a shock, he realized that it was Tony. Fear pricked his skin and made the hairs on his arms stand up straight as he entered briskly into the room, searching for the hero.

Comically, all he had to do was follow the trail of empty, broken alcohol bottles. They led him straight to the couch, where a seemingly passed-out Tony was shrieking. The cry was gut wrenching.

"Tony!" Steve said hurriedly, moving to the man's side. He carefully placed a hand on Tony's arm, wondering if it was safe to wake him. "Tony?"

"Not him!" Tony screeched, and the syllables rang so loud and clear that it chilled Steve to the core. "Not him, please, God, St-"

And with a shuddering gasp, Tony's eyes flew open. He was drenched in sweat, his hand bloody from the scotch glass he'd crushed in his sleep. Steve jumped backwards, heart racing.

"Tony...?" He questioned in a whisper, afraid to make another move.

"Son of a bitch," The brunet swore, shaking the glass from his hand. "Fuck. What the hell..."

At any other time, Steve might have scolded Tony for his language. But the Captain himself was still taken off guard. He didn't know what to do.

Tony seemed to notice Steve's presence in the room, and he turned to look at the male. A low gasp escaped his lips when his eyes focused on him, and then he sighed. Almost as if he were relieved to see the blond.

"Jesus. S-sorry about that. Guess this scotch is some pretty shifty stuff."

For a few seconds, neither spoke. And then Steve cleared his throat.

"Are you... Are you okay, Tony?"

He waved a hand in dismissal. "Fine, fine. Just a nightmare. I get those a lot."

You're not the only one.

"Yeah," Steve breathed, eyes fluttering to his hands. "I know how you feel."

This seemed to be new information to Tony, but any inference he might have had wasn't voiced. He looked back to the blood, to his injured hand. "Yeah, well, sorry to bother you. Should probably clean this all up. Hey, Dummy?"

Steve was momentarily offended, thinking the billionaire was referencing him, but shook his head as the robot rolled over. It made several beeping sounds at Tony.

"Clean this up," He commanded, gesturing to the mess as he swung his legs over the side of the couch and started to stand up. "And make sure the blood doesn't- shit!"

Unsteady on his feet, Tony started to tumble to the ground. But Steve had sharp reflexes and was there to catch him. There was a solid moment where neither of them moved, neither of them uttered a sound. Then Tony looked up at Steve, and both their faces were nearly the same shade of pink.

Tony cleared his throat and regained his balance, pulling out of Steve's hold. He wouldn't look at the man.

"Anyway..." He said awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. "I should go to bed now... So... Goodnight, Gramps."

Before Steve could reply, Tony disappeared. Now only he and Dummy remained, the latter busily cleaning up the glass shards that littered the couch and floor.

It seemed to notice when its master had fled though, and turned its mechanical head toward Steve. It sounded almost confused when it beeped at him.

"I don't know what just happened, so don't look at me." Steve mumbled absentmindedly, his fatigue hitting him again. "I don't think Tony does, either."