Everyone knew the story of the genius billionaire's kidnapping. If the civilian kidnapping didn't make top CNN news, the proclamation the day he returned surely did. Tony Stark, the owner of the infamous Stark Industries, who made millions creating and selling weapons of war had shut down the weapons development of his company.

Few people know that more than witnessing war was what brought on the change. The blue- glowing device in his chest reminded him daily of how close he came to dying.

How close he is to dying, still.

Despite having a suit of armor that made him quite literally a superhero, it was when he thought back on the Afghan kidnapping and power source in his chest, he never felt more human. Faced with his mortality, he felt far from the superhero the Avengers had declared to the world.

It was when he dwelled on those thoughts, on those sleepless nights surrounded by nightmares, he turned to the ever familiar bottle of whiskey, that he was pretty sure already ran through his veins.

Tonight was one of those nights, as he sat in the living room, a glass of Jack Daniels in his hands. The room was dimly lit, a single lamp shone across the room. He was alone this late at night. The Avengers needed their sleep, Steve—who the world loved Captain America—reminded them. Tony was surprised that the leader of the troupe of weirdoes hadn't established a bed time for his team. The only company he was to expect this late at night was his thoughts, an unshakeable fear that haunted him still, and the burn of an amber liquid down his throat.

Needless to say, when Steve walked into the living room, Tony was surprised.

"Tony?" he asked, calling into the darkness. "What are you doing up?"

In reality, he was beyond surprised. Something within him, now numb with whiskey, told him he should be angry. Steve was up, invading the privacy of his whiskey diluted thoughts.

But Tony couldn't bring himself to even give the guy a glare. He simply stared at the ice as they tumbled in his drink. "Couldn't sleep," he answered bluntly.

"You look like hell," Steve said softly, moving closer—invading his solace even more. It was then Steve looked at the glass in Tony's hands. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," he answered, downing the drink in one shot before standing up. He wanted to get out. If there was anyone he didn't want to know about this, it was Steve. Hoping to end the conversation before it began, Tony began to storm out, passing Steve in a quick

"You're not fine," Steve declared, stopping the man dead in his tracks. Tony heard Steve "Tony. I know you better than that. What's wrong?"

"It's nothing. Just a stupid nightmare. Really, stupid, I thought that Clint was going to force us all to wear these hideous outfits.—" he began to fabricate a dream, an unrealistic dream.

Steve cut him off before he got worse. "A nightmare?" he asked, completely unconvinced. He walked over grabbing the glass from the coffee table. "A nightmare doesn't make you drink, Tony."

"Mine do, okay?" Tony answered, sliding around the truth of the matter. That they did more than made him drink.

"You wanna talk about it?" he asked, even while attacked by Tony's verbal attacks, Steve's bright blue eyes never left his. Tony turn himself away, the anger that was once numbed by the alcohol was now fueled by it. "Tony?"

"If I wanted to talk about it, you'd think I would have talked about it to my therapist 3 years ago!" he finally screamed, turning back to Steve. The look on his face, god Tony wanted to forget that. The look of hurt, of wanting to comfort him. Tony flinched at his sudden outburst. At that moment, he just wanted to get away. "Look, forget it."

Steve finally gave in to his own frustration. "I'm not going to forget it, Tony!" he declared. Before Tony could retreat, Steve grabbed him by the elbow, swinging him around with that super serum enhanced strength of his to face him. Tony noticed Steve's expression softening as he looked into his eyes. "Tony, you should be able to talk to me. What is it that you can't talk to me about?"

And suddenly it hit him again: The raining gun-fire, the unbearable pain in his chest, the frustration and fear as he secretly built his own survival, Yinsen's last words echoing in his ears. Tony closed his eyes falling to the couch, his hands digging into the couch, as if clinging to it would stop the never ending spiral of chaos.

"Tony!" a voice finally shouted, pulling him from the chaos. As Tony's eyes opened, he found Steve crouched in front of him, holding his shoulders tightly as if afraid Tony would hurt himself in his delirium. When it was clear Tony was there, Steve looked deep into his eyes, almost pleadingly. "Tony… please. Talk to me."

Tony pulled Steve's superhuman strength off of his shoulders—he wouldn't be afraid if there was a bruise there tomorrow—before getting up. He walked over to look out the window. There was something comforting, yet humbling, when looking out at the streets of New York. The city continued to shine, almost as if a beacon of hope. Yet the city never slept; alive even in the dead of night. And that bothered him.

"Afghanistan."

Steve walked over to him, settling himself down on the couch as he watched the tormented man with concern that knew now bounds.

"What about it."

Tony sighed. "You've read my profile—know where I got this thing in my chest."

"Yeah," he responded cautiously. "It keeps the shrapnel from piercing your heart." And then suddenly it clicked. "Tony, you're okay. You're still here with us. That should be enough to prove it."

"But that's just it!" Tony exclaimed, turning around to glare at Steve. "I should have died back there! I counted the numbers, looked at the probability. Even with my genius, what's the probability that I would actually have made this thing that it would have worked; that it would have saved me. I should have died there, in that awful place. I don't deserve to live when—"

Tony was stopped by a giant force, holding him tight. It took him a minute to realize it was Steve holding him tightly to his chest, as if it would tell something Tony. It took Tony a minute to recognize the shaking in Steve's voice as he spoke.

"Don't you ever say that," he whispered in his ear. "If you had died—if you weren't here today, I don't know what I would have done. I don't want to even think about it." Tony slowly turned to face him. For some reason, he found it funny; Steve was actually crying. Someone was crying over the idea of him dying. It's not something he would have ever imagined.

It was then, Tony felt it. For the first time in ages, he realized that someone did love him. Steve had said the words again and again. But he didn't listen to them—even Pepper had said those words. Tony slowly pulled himself into the embrace, holding Steve as tightly as he could. They had said he shouldn't have died, that he had to live in memory of the sacrifices Yinsen had made. But Tony realized that none of that mattered.

If he was to live for anything, it was for Steve.

Song: Life Support from Rent

A/N: Seriously, why is the only thing I can seem to write is angst? No joke. I know I'm a dark person and I love to torture my characters. But PTSD? Seriously? That's a new one in my book. Then again, I did already write a character suicide. Actually, that was 2 deaths in one fic... But still, I don't think I even did this one well. The song was so short, I had to take extra time.

Even then, I was inspired from the moment I saw the title. It was only amplified by the line "Because reason says I should have died 3 years ago."

If anything, I think this one may turn into a one-shot, if it isn't already enough of one.