Tony is fine with water. Really, truly, honestly. He can drink, bathe, shower, everything. There is no problem. He's fine.

Tony is fine and Clint is an asshole.

It was supposed to be a completely normal evening. After all, what do you have a pool for if you don't use it? Tony has off-handedly mentioned the swimming pool in one of the Tower's lower levels to the team, which has, long story short, led to this.

Steve is somewhere back in the deeper water with Natasha and Clint. The three of them haven't taken long to end up there, practising whatever spies and soldiers practise in the water. Bruce has laid down somewhere beside the pool with a book, in swimming trunks but completely dry. Thor is swimming laps. Tony has settled near the shallow end of the pool, just watching the others for now while the water reaches up to his chest, but not higher; he isn't going to join in and actually swim, but he can stand here and look at them doing it. Because he is that fine with water. Yes.

After a while, Clint disentangles himself from the two he has been wrestling with before and swims over towards Tony with smooth, long strokes until he's close enough to stand and approach the inventor.

"Heya there," he greets, wiping some water off his face. "What's up with you standing here all on your own?"

"Aw, Clint," Tony responds teasingly, "I didn't know you cared."

The archer rolls his eyes. "Caring is an overstatement." He makes an inviting gesture towards the deep end of the pool, where Natasha is somehow clinging to Steve's back while he tries to throw her off. "We don't bite."

"I'm fine here," the inventor replies with a dismissive wave. "Go play with the kids." He isn't going to be a spoilsport and completely refuse to participate in the team's exploitation of the fact that they have a pool now, but that doesn't mean he has to overdo it.

"What is it, can't swim, old man?" Clint asks with a raised eyebrow, his arms folded over his chest. The posture shows their wiry muscles off exceptionally nicely; not that Tony would mention that.

Instead, he scoffs: "Old man? Watch your mouth, I'm only, like, one year older than you."

"Still, that's older," Clint retorts while stepping closer, slowed down by the water. "So are you coming or are you gonna stand there all day?"

"I'm pretty fine just standing here, actually," Tony insists with a tight-lipped smile. "It's a nice place to stand, really. Gives you a great view over everybody. No commotion. No splashy-stuff. Just the right thing for an old man like me."

The archer snorts as he comes to stand next to Tony, silent for a moment; then, suddenly, he's at the engineer's back and has gripped him in a Full Nelson, slinging his arms underneath Tony's armpits and interlocking his hands behind the inventor's head as he announces cheerfully: "Time to get you a little wet!"

"Clint, no!" Tony yelps, heart leaping into his throat in shock and he's about to say more, but his head is already being pressed underwater. He flails and struggles against the archer's hold while he tries to remind himself that it's okay, it's just Clint, he wouldn't actually...

But he is and Tony can't breathe, he is being held down and suddenly, the water feels a lot more icy than before, he could swear that he tastes oil and sand in the back of his throat, mingling with the biting, burning taste of chlorine. His movements are sluggish, he tries to kick out, raise his head, do something, for fuck's sake, but the burning in his lungs only grows worse with each passing second and Clint isn't letting go; he is trapped, he's being pushed underwater by someone far stronger than himself, he's

back in the cave, can't tell up from down, sweat and blood and dirty water mingling in his mouth and making him choke and sputter, the weight of the magnet heavy in his chest, still painful with the wound not even remotely healed yet, knowing that there's no chance of escaping yet still fighting against the hold on him because while his mind accepts that he is helpless, his body doesn't and he is making it worse and –

– air. Air, he can breathe, he is out of the water and breathing, choking on the liquid that has gotten into his mouth because he hasn't remembered to spit it out before greedily gasping for air. But he is breathing again, which means that they are going to start making demands again anytime now or put him back under...

"...you alright there, Tony?" He coughs up more water and shakes his head vigorously, droplets of water flying into every direction. "Hey, are you..."

"No," Tony wheezes out. "Still not doing it. Never going to. Shove it up your –"

"Tony, where are you right now? Look at me!" Someone is gripping his face, holding him still, and it takes him a moment to realize that his eyes are wide open, there's sensory input from them that he plainly ignored up until now. Blinking and still trying to pull away, he realizes that it's Clint standing in front of him, his eyebrows drawn together and concern evident in his eyes.

Clint. Clint is not a terrorist. This is not a cave, not Afghanistan, but still...

"Get the hell off, Barton," Tony snarls and twists out of the archer's grip. He knows he's not thinking clearly, but he can't do anything about it now while he backs away, painfully slowly because of all of the fucking water around him, he needs to get out of here now before this gets even worse.

"Tony, are you having –"

"No!" the inventor interrupted. "I'm fine, now back the fuck off!" Finally, he feels the edge of the pool in his back and pulls himself out of the water with shaking arms. It's not just them, his whole body is trembling like a leaf.

He can feel the eyes of the whole team on him now and it's horribly quiet without the splashing of water, now that nobody is moving anymore, with no talking or snickering. The only sound seems to be his own ragged, uneven breathing, echoing from the walls and growing in volume until it feels loud enough to deafen him while he staggers to his feet and takes small steps backwards towards the exit, dangerously swaying.

It's Clint who speaks up again, voice low and careful like he's trying to soothe a cornered animal: "It's obviously not fine, you –"

"Now why could that be?!" Tony yells over him, his tone bordering on hysterical. The cold metal of the door handle hits his back and he grips it to wrench it open without looking before he casts one last glance around the room.

Bruce has risen from his chair, apparently with the intent to step closer towards Tony, but hasn't actually dared to approach him. Thor seems startled, almost disbelieving. Natasha has a hand on Steve's chest to keep him from moving, her own green eyes fixed on the inventor with that piercing, calculating stare of hers. Clint, closer to the pool's edge than any of the others, looks like he's at a complete loss, torn between backing off like Tony told him to and coming closer again.

Drawing another shuddering breath, Tony slips through the door and hurries towards the changing rooms, not quite running, but not far from it either. Behind him, he can hear the voices of his teammates rise, echoing from the walls and flowing together in a bizarre kind of white noise, all except from Clint's that is loud enough to carry a distinct "Tony!" towards the engineer.

Tony bursts through the door of the men's changing room and heads for the one on the other side, knowing that the elevator is behind it, and tries to tell himself that he's not running away, there's no reason to – anyway, the calls of his name behind him, the adrenaline and the still not-quite-faded panic making his heart race, together with the sound of hurried footsteps give him the feeling of being on the run from something, someone, and he all but leaps into the elevator that JARVIS has already opened for him, jamming his index finger on the button for the penthouse over and over again until the metal doors finally slide shut.

"No-one gets in before I'm out," he manages to say before his legs give out under him and he slides down one of the walls of the elevator. Some SI-employee walking in on him like this would be the icing on the cake. Trying to calm his shallow, erratic breathing, he puts his head between his knees as he pulls them towards his chest. He hasn't bothered with drying down, so his whole body, especially his hair, is still dripping wet and leaves a growing, dark patch on the thin carpet that covers the elevator's floor.

He doesn't even notice when the quiet mechanical whir of it dies down and leaves him in complete silence. His thoughts are elsewhere, somewhere between not again leave me in peace and pull yourself together, this is not Afghanistan, you're fine. He doesn't get up. He has no reason to, after all. He's just going to sit here until he's okay. It always worked so far.

The team. The team knows. He has to do something, he can't just leave it at that, they know an without having to wait for it, he realizes that there are going to be questions. They're going to deem him unfit for his work as Iron Man at best, and at worst they're going to force him to visit some sort of SHIELD shrink who will try to pry things from that he never intended to talk about. The thought makes his heart rate elevate again and he can hear his own breathing going faster when he has just calmed down a minute ago.

The sound of footsteps and heavy breathing serves as something to pull him out of his spiralling thoughts and forces himself to resist the urge to curl up tighter in the corner of the elevator and instead looks up just as Clint stumbles into view and leans against the open door of the elevator, taking a deep breath before he wheezes out: "Tony." The inventor just stares at him with too-wide eyes. There's a towel slung over Clint's shoulder, but it doesn't look like he even attempted to dry himself. He's still wet and now rakes a hand through his short hair, making it stand up in a spiky mess. "Jesus, Tony."

"What are you doing here?" Tony asks slowly and suddenly becomes self-conscious about the picture he undoubtedly makes, curled up in the corner of the elevator with his knees close to his chest and his arms slung around them, dripping strands of hair clinging to his face and a faint tremor in his limbs.

With a duh-expression, Clint responds: "Looking for you, obviously."

Since neither of them has directly addressed the topic at hand yet, Tony decides to keep it that way and remarks: "Well, you found me. Obviously. Why do you sound like you just ran like twenty flights of stairs?"

"Because I just ran like twenty flights of stairs," the archer deadpans, still out of breath, and pulls the towel off his shoulder to hold it out to Tony. "For some reason, JARVIS wouldn't get the elevator." After a second, he notices his mistake and puts it down on the floor instead.

Warily, the inventor crouches forward to reach for it, not looking away from Clint, and slings it around his neck so he can begin to dry his hair while he asks: "And why would you do that?"

Clint's eyebrows shoot up and he repeats: "Why would I do that?" He sits back on his haunches so Tony finally doesn't have to look up at him anymore. "Take a wild guess, would you? I was worried, you genius."

Tony doesn't like not seeing what's around him, but he doesn't want to feel Clint's eyes on him for just a few seconds and scrubs the towel over his face, using the brief moment to compose himself before he pulls it away again and glances up at the archer. "Okay then," he says. "I'm fine."

A breathless laugh slips past the other's lips, followed by "and what is your definition of fine, exactly?" When Tony doesn't answer, he nods like his point has just been proven. "See."

"I. Am. Fine," Tony insists, stressing each word individually as though that makes him any more convincing.

"Excuse me, are you currently sitting in your elevator in swimming trunks or are you not?" Clint demands.

"That could be normal for me," the inventor responds, sass coming in as his last line of defence. "After all, I'm an eccentric genius billionaire. Who knows what I do in my spare time." Admittedly, not his best comeback as of yet, but it's something.

"Are we seriously playing this game now?" Tony huffs and crosses his arms over his chest in a gesture that is meant to look stubborn, but probably comes off more as defensive. "Tony, you're obviously not fine."

"And this is your idea of helping?" he snaps, one hand clenching around the towel.

"So you admit that you do need help," Clint replies, completely ignoring the question.

Tony groans and puts his head back between his knees. "Fuck you, Barton."

There's a moment of silence and then a sigh from the archer before he clears his throat and quietly begins: "Look, Tony, I'm sorry. Honestly. I didn't know –"

"That's because you're not supposed to know," Tony interrupts without raising his head.

"Yeah. Right." Clint pauses. "About that. Why the hell not?"

"'cause there's no reason for you to know," the inventor responds sharply. "I'm fine," he talks over the archer's upcoming protest, "I'm fine and I can deal with it on my own. This was harmless. The worst thing it did was disable the elevator for a while, that's no fucking big deal, and I'm coping, okay? It's none of your damn business, for Christ's sake, just leave it alone!" His voice has begun to grow louder at some point during the sentence until he's almost shouting. He tries to ignore the shaking of his voice and hopes that Clint doesn't catch it or, at the very least, will not mention it.

"You're fine? You're coping?" the archer repeats and sounds angry now, which just isn't fair since this is his fault. "Which part of this exactly is no big deal, huh?"

"It's getting better!" Tony yells. "When I first came back from there, it would set me off if someone mentioned 'waterboarding' in a conversation." He can hear Clint recoiling at the term. "I don't need your help, and I especially don't need your pity, this is my fucking problem and I don't see where you're involved in it!"

"I'm involved in it when I'm setting off a panic attack because I don't know about your triggers, or, for that matter, the fact that there are triggers for you!" Clint shouts back with equal volume. Tony flinches, pressing back into the corner and pulling his knees closer to his chest. He hears Clint exhaling slowly as if to compose himself. Then, the archer says with forced calmness: "Okay. This is not the moment to talk about this, so I'll leave it alone until you're ready to talk."

"How incredibly gracious of you," the inventor mutters sarcastically.

"But," Clint continues, "I'm not leaving until you're out of the elevator."

Tony heaves a long sigh, but he has wanted to get up anyway, so he scrubs the towel over his hair one last time before he blindly reaches for the railing on the cabin's side to pull himself up. He sways more than he would have liked and the movement causes a wave of dizziness along with a faint feeling of nausea, but all in all, it's far from the worst panic attack that he's had so far. When he sees Clint reaching out to steady him, however, his arm is raised defensively and he's pressed firmly against the wall before he can think about it and he can't help but notice the archer's guilty flinch.

Gritting his teeth, he forces himself to relax as Clint takes a step back and to the side to allow Tony to pass. The inventor would love to steady himself on the wall while he walks towards his bedroom, but he is still too proud, too stubborn for that. He keeps insisting that he's fine, he will have to play the part.

The agent's steps are soundless, but it doesn't surprise Tony that he's still behind him when he opens the bedroom door and throws a glance over his shoulder. A small part of him wants to ask are you going to stay here?, but what comes out is a biting "am I at least allowed to go to bed alone, mum?"

He can see Clint clenching his jaw, but the archer steps back and nods silently, apparently out of arguments to stay any longer.

With a nod and a strange feeling that almost resembles disappointment, Tony returns the nod and slips into the bedroom. Without looking back towards the door, he makes a beeline for the bed, pulling the wet swimming trunks off on the way and leaving them on the floor as he dries himself off as far as is really necessary and then collapses forward onto the mattress. With cold, shaking fingers, he pulls the covers over himself and proceeds to stare at the wall, aware that sleep won't come but too exhausted to actually do anything now.

He'll have to talk to them. Had he been alone with Clint, he might have been able to convince the archer to keep Tony's little... problem to himself, but now the whole team has seen everything. Curling in on himself with the blanket tangled around him, Tony tries to ignore the shaking of his hands. They can't really do anything to him. They know. So what? It doesn't change anything.

Clutching the blanket to his chest and trying to breathe around the reactor, he tries to ignore the spike of pain that every inhale causes at the edges of the metal casing. It spreads out over his chest like tiny tendrils of fire and makes him want to stop breathing altogether. He's rarely this aware of the reactor anymore; but after the running and the hyperventilation from before, it feels like the skin and flesh around it has been chafed raw.

But he can deal. He has had to learn to and he won't forget it now just because the others know that he's got issues. They're not magically going to get worse because of that.

Tony is fine. Honestly. The others just don't see it.